


Finding Dorian

by IncreasingLight



Series: In Their Blood [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood Magic, Character Growth, Consensual Kink, Facing Your Fears, Fear of love, I'm probably missing a ton here, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Oral Sex, Prequel, Running away from home, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Semi-Public Sex, a very dead dragon, at least for now, bull gets aroused by dragons, confusing cultural differences, drinking and sex, fear of intimacy, getting into Dorian's head, hitting the Iron Bull with a stick, impertinent assumptions, lack of good planning, mention of terminal illness, mentions of bullying, social mores and embarrassment, starts out angsty and gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncreasingLight/pseuds/IncreasingLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This turned into something much longer than the short one-off for Dorian that I've had laying around forever and never got around to posting.  Set in the world of Andraste's Asta, it's the story of how Dorian left the Imperium, and what happened afterward.</p><p>Super angsty, lots of self-loathing to start.  Seriously, don't read it without noting the tags.  It's mostly in Dorian's head which can be a pretty dark place.</p><p>People who have read my stuff before will recognize that I start out dark, and it gets better.  This work is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Perfect

Dorian leaned heavily against the desk in his father’s study, shaking from what he had read, and then witnessed. The preparations… He couldn’t… he just couldn’t believe…

It was absolutely impossible. His father would never…

But apparently he would. And had. He had been responsible for all of it. And that left him…

With a not quite muttered curse - there was no point in secrecy - Dorian ripped open the desk drawer just in front of his father’s chair, shocked the secret glyph disguising the compartment he needed open, and took out the extremely heavy coin purse, and the amulet next to it.

His birthright. Kaffas. He was really going to… and then he purposefully shut down his thoughts. It was time to act, not think.

He barely registered what he was doing as he grabbed the cloak by the front entry, ignored the slave asking what time he could expect the young Master back, and removed himself into the simultaneously too full and too empty streets of Qarinus, impeccably groomed hair blown awry with sea winds that were too strong for this time of year.

A ship would be too obvious - there would be records. Records were the downfall of his father, and they would not betray his son. He collected a horse - not his father’s favorite, his resentment didn’t go that deep - ignoring yet another of his parents’ slaves, politely asking when he could be expected to return, and started riding towards the gates.

South.

He didn’t stop. If he stopped, he knew himself too well. He would turn back, embrace his cowardice, allow them to - his mind stuttered for a little while on the word as well as the implications - _change_ him, marry that…

Fasta vass, he couldn’t. He was far from the perfect paragon of a son that his parents had hate-fucked each other to conceive, raised with hope and something that approximated love, at least upon his father‘s side, and educated him to be, even when he didn‘t make it easy, but to submit to such a horror…

No. His father had taught his lessons too well. In this the student had exceeded the teacher. Though how his father had known of such a rite…

He couldn’t think about it, so he shoved it to the back of his mind with the determination of a thousand Brontos.

He didn’t realize where he was headed until he fell off his horse, faint with fatigue and lack of food. “Shit,” he muttered in Common, purely to reinforce to himself that he had left the pretension that he was entitled to claim behind him forever, trying to ease his bruises with what little healing magic he could summon.

It hurt. He hadn’t hurt like this since the last Circle’s bullies had waylaid him in a hallway, and accused him of being… what he was. He had submitted then to the beating. Knowing that it would mean going home, where he had thought his father loved him for who he was, not what he would bring him. Home had been a sanctuary then, and the beating had led him to Alexius - a far better teacher than any Circle he had attended. One worthy of his fine mind, his father had told him then, with a smile of affection.

But no one really thought that way, Dorian realized with a stab of pain in his stomach that threatened to bring up the last thing he had eaten. Had it really been days before? Everyone was out to see how they could use him. He was the prize to the worthy girl - the one most likely to bring his parents’ status and grandchildren. He was the object of no one’s affections, only worth a quick fuck in silence where both parties were taught to be ashamed of their desires. And that was the worst - to realize that everyone thought him more than worthless - there would be no hiding it now. It would be expected that his parents would either hide themselves in shame or denounce him entirely. Erase him from their existence.

His mentor wasn’t an option. Alexius was lost to him after the death of his wife. Felix was… dying - and his heart broke all over again for one of his only possible friends. There was no one, he realized, hunching over by the side of the road, sucking the air back into his lungs painfully, though there were no tears to accompany his sobs - other than Maevaris, and she was now nearly two days in the opposite direction. And even then he couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t tell his father where he was.

He was all alone in the world and nobody loved him.

The surge of facetious self-pity got him back on his feet. Maker’s Mirror, he was pathetic.

He walked the tired horse for a while after he finally got his breath back, eyes troubled behind his ever-confident mask. There was no help for it. It would have to be Felix. He hated to burden him, but at the next crossroads he turned in the direction of Minrathous anyway. With luck, he could reach the city proper in a few days, and no one of importance would recognize him.

Not for the first time he thanked the Maker that he hadn’t been educated in the Minrathous Circle. Then there would be no escape from shallow acquaintance acknowledging his presence in the capital. This way, he was nearly anonymous.

It was better this way.

Even in the depths of his melancholy he knew that someone would know of him. But as long as it was no one of importance… his father would not hear.

He would likely guess. Grandfather Pavus raised no fool, and Dorian‘s ‘fine mind‘ wasn‘t circumstantial. But by that time, Dorian would have moved on, and hopefully out of the Imperium entirely. His father wouldn’t go out of his way.

He just needed a direction. Felix was good at giving him directions. And, Dorian’s mouth twisted in remembered humor and grief, he liked trouble. Trouble was something Dorian was all too good at bringing. Let Felix get what he wanted then - trouble worse than the Blight eating him from the inside. Perhaps Dorian’s troubles would be a distraction for the other man.

Let his father think he had just disappeared. Faded into the Void. Let him name a new heir. He had no intention of ever going home again. He was sure his father would give the status and titles away to one of his more loyal students - that seemed rather the appropriate thing to do. None were as gifted as he was, of course, but beggars mustn’t be choosers.

He clutched the birthright amulet he had stolen out of his father’s desk until he felt the sharp edge cut deep into his skin. Fitting, he thought bitterly, that his birthright would literally spill his blood, as he felt slow wet drips leave his hand to fall onto the hard stone of the Imperial Road. He would sell it, he resolved. Not because he would need the money, but as a symbol of what it had never meant to him. As a cheap trinket worthy only of pawning for coin. As soon as he was out of the Imperium and back in what would pass for civilization in the South, it would be gone forever.

By Andraste‘s Pyre, he hoped they had something that resembled civilization.

He had stopped and eaten something at a horrible excuse of a tavern. Felix would ask. Best he could tell the truth.

It didn’t matter that he emptied his stomach directly afterward at the side of the road, unable to keep the food down with the roiling anxiety that was still pumping adrenaline through his veins. It was the principle of eating, so that he could assure Felix he was taking care of himself.

He was taking care of himself. Wasn’t that a novel thought? Right proper job he was doing of it, too.

By the time he reached Minrathous he was positively filled with bravado. And his Birthright had cut open his palm in five deep curved lines. One for every day he had spent upon the road since he had fallen off his horse. The sharp Silverite edge of the amulet was tinged with the rusty evidence of the Pavus’ last son. The only part of him that had any worth, apparently.

He wouldn’t let Felix heal them. “Don’t waste the mana,” he argued when Felix raised shocked eyes over the red beginnings of the infection. “They’ll heal soon enough. Silverite purifies.”

He would heal soon enough.

 


	2. Not a hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not as many triggers in this one, but they're still there.

It was two days of skulking - and Dorian could skulk ever so attractively - around the Alexius manor before Felix confronted him.

Dorian had known it would happen, that Felix would insist on hearing why he was in Minrathous instead of preparing for a wedding, but he skimmed over the darker side of the tale, sensing that Felix had his own problems. For one, he hadn’t seen hide or hair of Gereon, and that bothered him a great deal. Alexius was devoted to his son, to the point of obsession.

He hadn’t fooled Felix, but the other man let it go, with a furrowed brow and pensive look. “I need your help,” he said at last.

At last, Dorian mused. Felix was excellent at providing distractions when he’d rather be moping or studying or just about anything else. But the story he told, of Tevinter supremacists and cults… “Fasta Vass, that doesn’t sound like Alexius. This is everything we never wanted to happen!”

Felix looked troubled, “He did it for me, Dorian. I’m getting worse… and you can’t stay here. If my father finds you…”

Dorian interrupted, “Not the first time I’ve heard those words, but the first time from you.” He batted his eyelashes, “Felix, I didn’t know you cared.”

“I’m serious, Dorian,” Felix was grinding his teeth. “Stop the incessant flirting and listen to me.” Dorian hadn’t seen him like this very often. He straightened up.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he managed. “I’m taking this very seriously. What would you like me to do?”

“I’m supposed to travel with Father when he leaves in a week’s time,” Felix urged. “You need to leave the Imperium. I want you to leave before then. We’re heading for Redcliffe, and the Southern rebel mages that the King of Ferelden has let stay there. I need you to contact…” he hesitated and then kept going, “There are rumors of an Inquisition, Dorian.”

“Vashante Kaffas,” Dorian breathed heavily. “You want me to betray my country? Encourage another Exalted March? Felix, I’m an embarrassment to everyone that knows me, but I don’t think… I‘m not fit to play the hero, though I look the part…”

“Not your country, just your mentor,” Felix begged. “Stop him, Dorian. Please. I - I’ve tried arguing with him, but he says that the Elder One is the only one who can… cure me.” His friend closed his eyes. “I don’t want to die, but if it means what I think it means… I can’t let the cost of my life be the entire world.” He opened his eyes again. “I’m not privy to most of their plans. What I know is what I’ve given you. But you know what my father’s been working on for all these decades. His theories. Let me say - I suspect we’ll reach Redcliffe before you.”

“He got it to work…” Dorian paled. “Is it…”

“You can’t have missed the talk of the hole in the sky,” Felix told him unusually dryly. He was usually so earnest. “Even while you abandoned your title and family and intended?”

“I find myself unable to tell you ‘no’,” Dorian swung his legs down onto the floor, eager to deflect Felix‘ attentions from the rest of the cautionary tale that had become his life. “I will head for Redcliffe. I‘ll be your hero. Nothing like saving the world to get me out of my funk, yes? I should have known, Felix, that you would go to any lengths to save me from myself, including tearing a hole in the fabric of the Veil. Thoughtful of you.”

“Dorian, I‘m…” Felix began.

“I know, I know, you’re serious,” Dorian walked over and pinched his cheek, as if he was still nine years old and stealing him cakes from the kitchen. “You’re always so serious. You’re the best of all of us, Felix. I don’t blame your father a bit for trying to save you.” Felix rolled his eyes. “How do I get to Redcliffe? It’s somewhere in the South, I believe… do you have a map?”

He never did see Alexius in the two days it took them to plan his trip. South, on the Imperial Highway, hoping that the crowds would be enough to disguise his identity, and through Val Royeaux… and then over the Frostbacks, “Such an adventure!” Dorian enthused facetiously. Even the patient Felix was getting rather fed up with him, but Dorian couldn’t stop himself. “I feel rather like Genitivi! What knowledge am I pursuing, do you think?”

“This knowledge is dangerous,” Felix warned.

“All knowledge is dangerous. But I’ll leave tonight,” Dorian assured him. “Nothing keeping me here, and the longer I stay, the more likely your father will hear of it.” Felix could only agree.

“Dorian,” the young man started, a concerned line between his heavy eyebrows, “Are you…”

“Ready to go? Absolutely,” Dorian cut him off. “Let me just fetch my things… oh wait, I don’t have any.” He beamed bitterly at his friend, noting the too pale skin, interrupted by the dark circles under his eyes. Felix was getting worse. “Just… take care of yourself, Felix. I’m a grown man, and have been for some time. I can do this.”

And Felix let it go. Let him go, with a single admonition. “Just try not to get yourself killed?”

And Dorian countered, “There are worse things than death, Felix, my boy. And I‘m the hero! The universe wouldn‘t know how to manage without me.”

***

Dorian, once alone, traveled too fast again, eating too little. His robes were too baggy, and he spent too long buried in his own thoughts. He reached Val Royeaux, and the expensive city tried to beggar him with good wines and the first decent food he had encountered so far.

He sold his birthright, feeling bitter and heroically symbolic at the same time, taking the ridiculously small amount from the merchant, but not willing to bargain and wheedle a higher price for something so… worthless.

It meant nothing to him, he assured himself for the hundredth time. Nothing. But he traced the scars it had left on his palm almost nostalgically.

He spent the money sensibly, and crossed the Frostbacks with a better cloak and hardy horse, cursing the cold with every single breath, marveling that people chose to live in such a climate. Truly, Fereldans must have addled brains to find it habitable.

Maybe their dogs kept them warm at night? He allowed himself a small chuckle.

Ferelden had one benefit - Qarinus seemed distant now. The choices he had made there didn’t seem to matter at all. It was a welcome illusion.

He reached Redcliffe, and blinked at the open signs of Venatori presence. Felix had been right. They had beaten him here. The time magic worked… his brain whirred almost audibly with the implications before he arrested his thoughts, and took the long way through town to reach the Chantry, where Felix was supposed to meet him.

He nearly stopped to stare at a pair of male mages openly embracing near the statue dedicated to the Hero of Ferelden, and with difficulty kept walking. Circles were the same everywhere, he supposed. And these were still Circle mages, for all their overdue rebellion. But to show their affection openly…

He forced the thoughts down. It didn’t matter. No one wanted him that way. And after the last time… well, he wasn’t going to make the mistake of looking for anything like love, or acceptance, or... People like him didn’t get happily ever afters. What was the point of even trying?

Felix came, and distracted him again, telling him that the Inquisition was already here, and Dorian smirked. “Making my job easier, are they? How thoughtful of them.” And then Felix had to leave, to attend his father, with the note in Dorian’s too perfect handwriting clutched in his fist. “See you in a moment, then,” Dorian called to his back.

And then the rift opened above his head and he was too busy with the inevitable demons to contemplate his solitude.

He chirped cheerily, as if he wasn’t winded at all, at the Herald when she arrived, “There you are! Help me close this, will you?” And tried not stare at how awkwardly she fought. If this was Andraste’s Herald… well, surely She could have done better?

But the rift was mended all the same, and Dorian shoved his judgmental thoughts aside when Andraste’s Herald proved to have a sense of wry humor, and educated beyond what he thought the South was capable of. Thank the Maker. His experience with heretics was somewhat limited to the merely disenchanted, but he found himself enjoying her far more than he would have thought, urging her to send Alexius a fruit basket. It was the little things that would make this life he was choosing worthwhile, he decided all at once, wondering if it was possible to cultivate something like friendship with this rather plain-looking ex-Sister with a mind that was almost the equal of his own.

And the Qunari with her… well, if he was a little distracted, it was understandable. It had been months, after all. His dry spell was due to last the rest of his life, but he could still look, couldn’t he? The man wasn’t exactly subtle, with the lack of shirt.

It was probably on purpose. Those arms were probably some sort of weapon meant to be pointed towards deviant ‘Vint mages that couldn’t control themselves. That would explain the lack of shirt… he realized he was dwelling overmuch on the lack of shirt, and folded his arms in front of his own chest in unconscious defense, his bared shoulder flexing attractively.

It did not escape his notice that the Iron Bull thought him pretty. He just managed not to preen, realizing what he was doing before he started flirting by instinct alone. Fasta Vass, flirting with a _Qunari_? Surely even his deplorable morals had limits… and the man probably smelled. Or something.

But he was pretty. Nice of someone to recognize it, even if it was a Qunari who probably didn’t have many other choices. No doubt Dorian was the loveliest thing he had ever seen in his life. Even Qunari could have decent taste.

But the Inquisitor was referring him to a local smuggler, and he departed for Haven, reminding Felix of their last conversation before he left Minrathous. “Do try not to get yourself killed?” He asked, walking backwards, trying to impress his unspoken worry on the younger man.

“There are worse things than death, Dorian.” And his throat closed off.

It sounded strangely like self-sacrifice, in Felix’s voice.

He wondered how it had sounded in his own. Surely it hadn’t sounded so… noble. Felix was the better man. They both knew that.

He wasn't the hero.

 


	3. Not a romantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lightening up a bit. Anyone that has read my stuff before should recognize the pattern. Changing the tags and summary to reflect that.
> 
> I'm breaking out the chapters differently than how I thought, so there will be a few more of them than I planned.

The cabbages against his white robes stained them _green_. He hadn't even realize that was possible. He smelled of vegetable matter upon his arrival in Haven, and the smuggling Chantry sister was sick of his complaints and demands. He hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to be charming. Not to a smuggler.

He had had quite enough of her, as well. Apparently the only decent Chantry sister was an ex-Chantry sister. That Mother Gisele was practically stalking him, as if he was going to poison the well with his very presence.

Andraste's Herald was refreshing. A trifle too trusting, perhaps, but the company she kept… Fasta Vass, he couldn’t remember when he had last seen such a lovely selection of men to ogle. Well, other than the bearded lout. Evidently the South - and the Qun… though he was still not thinking about, or speaking to, the Iron Bull - bred them beautiful. Her Commander had the most lovely eyes, and he regularly took the opportunity to mentally remove that horrible excuse of a cloak to imagine the body underneath the armor.

It had truly been too long, if he was checking out Qunari and Southern Templars. Though the tricks some of those same Templars claimed to do… he wouldn’t mind a smite from some of those beefcakes. Dorian mentally fanned himself, enjoying his only sense of humor.

Luckily, they left for Redcliffe before his own nature could take control, as Asta was determined to go against the handsome Commander’s wishes and rescue the mages from their own foolishness. She evidently had more willpower than himself. Just another reason to admire her. It was wise to surround yourself with people who exhibited better behavior than yourself, so you could bask in their reflected goodness.

He was already rather fond of her, even before they landed hip-deep in corrupted water a year in the future. Probably a good thing, since she was a complete basket case, who couldn’t hit the broad side of a Fereldan Druffalo with her daggers.

Not everyone was a fighter, he reminded himself charitably. And she made up for her lack by being remarkably good company, capable of asking the most pertinent questions at the best time. He almost wanted to keep her safe, oddly enough. Or not so oddly. She was more than the mark on her hand, that was certain, even if she couldn’t fully understand how it worked.

Sweet Maker, was he making a friend? His mother would have been so proud, assuming she stopped drinking these days long enough to care what he did. That was debatable.

But the Iron Bull… seeing him glowing red with corruption and singing that ridiculous tavern song - Was it a sign of how drunk you were in the South when you couldn’t count backwards anymore? - It was just as well he was going to be some version of celibate, and that all his feelings were safely compartmentalized in a charming little decorative box, or he might actually care that the overgrown horned nug was dying.

He would not fuss, he resolved, that would do neither of them any favors, and then found himself doing just that when Asta - how easily he found it to call her by her name instead of her title (Maker, perhaps it _was_ friendship, and wasn‘t that a shock.) tried to vomit again at the remains of the Commander hanging upside down and encased in red lyrium crystal.

Poor thing, she already had it bad for the Commander. But Dorian wasn’t going to get involved. He failed at emotions, at relationships, and had no business getting involved in anything that resembled someone else’s love life.

It was a shame, though. Those two kids were made for each other, the sincere, but tortured Commander with his puppy eyes following her around the camp, begging her to come and distract him… the similarly preoccupied ex-Sister -slash-heretic all too willing to do just that…

But he absolutely wasn’t going to get involved. Ever. He was not a matchmaker.

Instead, he let her cry on him for days after his plan actually worked without turning them both to paste in the process - absolutely ruining his silk robes between the wet patches and the frozen air before the clueless Commander, no doubt tipped off that he was being an ass, came to finally apologize for his deplorable behavior. And, so, he abandoned her to her fate, as was no doubt foretold by anyone who knew him even slightly. A better person would have stayed.

He wasn’t a good person. He had little experience in being a good friend, either.

He had abandoned his family. Not the act of a good son. And Felix… his own mind insisted on replaying the death of the husk that was no longer Felix in that blighted future. He had to constantly remind himself that the real Felix had gone home, to take up his father’s seat in the Magisterium, after begging him to stay, to make a difference with the Inquisition. Dorian had agreed easily enough. Where else would he go? And there were things here that needed tending.

If one of them was an all too innocent ex-Chantry sister with a mind like a steel trap - such an odd combination but one that he greatly approved of - well, perhaps he wouldn’t be completely alone.

Maybe Felix, as good as he was, could make them listen. They would never listen to him. Even if Dorian could ever go home. His gut clenched at the reminder.

His thoughts turned back to Asta, and her Commander, so determined to keep her at an arm‘s length, to maintain professionalism. Maybe he could get involved… just a little. Nudge the two of them together… Perhaps he could embrace the role of the best friend who was eager to shove his friend into the situation where she most wanted to be. Could he be someone’s best friend?

Surely he wasn’t incapable… but who was he kidding? Similar overtures of flirtation and friendship had caused women to accuse him of leading them on. But he didn’t get those vibes from Asta at all. She barely looked at him, _him_ , as if he was attractive. Could it be possible that he wasn’t her type?

That would be a first. Perhaps she just had bad eyesight, caused by all that reading? But if the Commander was what she wanted… a good friend would help them out.

His disgust with himself threatened to overwhelm. Maker’s Mirror, was he turning into some sort of romantic?!

Whatever he was, he was not a romantic.

He caught Bull’s eye on the way back to his cabin - thank the Maker that Asta had offered to share her cabin, since he despised tents - from the Chantry, and he could have sworn the kossith winked at him over the shoulder of his second in command. Winked with one eye. It looked ridiculous. And perhaps a little cute, if he were being honest.

But he wasn’t an honest man. He had lived a lie his entire life.

He did not blush, and made a point of staying even further away from the horned man, and reciting Bull’s faults to himself mentally before bed, lest he be… tempted.

He was not going to be tempted.

***

Dorian had played his cards well: the shy Commander and his Amica (though he wouldn’t dare call her that in public yet) had disappeared together for the entire afternoon.

Yes, of course, his nefarious plans had been delayed by the piece of shit known as Corypheus, but… well, Skyhold was a far better venue than the shithole that was Haven for such trysts. He personally had suggested several such hidey-holes to his new friend as possibilities. Apparently she hadn’t made use of any of them.

He was very good at finding discreet places to meet up with someone else in secret. At least some of his skills were proving useful.

With luck, they would be boinking like rabbits within a few months, the Commander would look less stressed out, the world would be saved, they would name their firstborn after him, and then he…

His brain stammered to a close. Well, he would be able to take the credit, at least, for bringing the power couple of the Dragon Age together at last. That wasn’t a horrible epitaph.

He weighed mentally, hand on his chin, as he stared sightlessly at the bookshelves in his nook about whether or not King Alistair and his Queen were any sort of competition, and decided that since the Queen in question had disappeared for three years, Asta was by far the stronger candidate for ‘Most Illustrious Personage of the Dragon Age‘. Quite satisfactory.

He gave up on the books. Trying to find something decent to read in this hodge-podge that Asta was trying to turn into a library was pointless. Honestly, who gave a fuck about whether Divine Galatea took a shit on Sundays? He turned his feet down the stairs, and let them lead him out the main hall and towards the Rest.

As he paused to let his eyes adjust to the relative darkness of the tavern, he heard a noise from behind the stairs. “Hey, Dorian. What’s up?” His eyes turned suspiciously towards the Bull, and he cursed mentally at the Qunari spy’s posture. “Buy you a drink?”  The voice sounded oddly - eager.

“Fasta Vass, don’t slouch like that. I can see your…” He stopped abruptly, clearly seeing the outline beneath those horrible travesties of trousers.

“Yeah? See something you like?”

Yes. Dorian’s uncooperative brain supplied the appropriate answer willingly, but the words didn’t make it to his lips. “Of course not,” he lied, and made his way to Cabot. “The usual,” he demanded, and the dwarf behind the bar provided the nondescript green bottle filled with the pale Fereldan ale he was learning to enjoy a little too much.

“You want the fried pickles with that?” Cabot asked, and Dorian stared at him, horrified that he had given away his secret. “Never mind,” the dwarf smirked, triumphant.

From the shadow behind the stairs, that - man - laughed. Dorian decided right then that he would do his drinking elsewhere.

He wasn’t going to allow himself to be made fun of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is the best thing I've ever written, but I hope it amuses, at least!


	4. Not a lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW - as the chapter title might imply.
> 
> This is the first of two chapters that will be posted today, as I try not to post over the weekend.
> 
> This is such the wrong thing to post for Mother's Day... and now I can't stop laughing. But... Happy Mother's Day.

Dorian bolted upright from his most disturbing dream yet. By Dumat’s Silence, he had to beat this. Now demons (he refused to admit what kind - the layman‘s classification of ‘Desire‘ demons into one massive class was a symptom of oversymplification) were taking notice of his preoccupation with the Qunari warrior. He had defeated this one, but there would be another the next night, and then the next… the Veil was too weak here in the Approach to not attract unwelcome attention from the Fade.

The apostate hobo was right about the Veil being thin. It was thinner than that rice paper from Seheron that his mother liked to import for her stationery. Sometimes he felt like he could just brush it aside, and a whole different world would reveal itself.

One, no doubt, filled with spirits and demons that would overwhelm the world as they knew it within a number of months. Wait, that sounded familiar… he smirked at his own weak joke in appreciation.

He thought carefully about what to do about his not so little ‘problem’ for several days before an opportunity presented itself in the form of a bottle of West Hills Brandy.

Asta was right, it smelled cloying, but it meant that he could try to get himself drunk enough to be stupid. Not truly drunk… because if he was going to do the unthinkable, he wanted to enjoy the unthinkable, and if past experience had taught him anything it was that too much alcohol made things unpleasant for everybody involved. Especially the unthinkable.

And he was going to do the unthinkable, if that wasn't clear. Vashante Kaffas.

This was what Dorian had become. The sort of ‘Vint mage that would seduce the enemy in a tent half-filled with sand wearing a pair of red silk smallclothes. But the only way, he convinced himself, to stop the dreams that were constantly disturbing his well-earned-by-means-of-killing-endless-demons beauty sleep, was to confront the cause. He killed enough demons in the daylight - no need to continue to defeat them all night long.

He had no doubt that Bull would be willing. The man was well known for being promiscuous. Half the tavern wenches and all the ex-Chantry sisters bragged about ‘riding the Bull’. Except for his Amica. Thank the Maker, because that situation would be the worst kind of awkward after Bull gave into the inevitable attraction he had for Dorian. He had seen the way the Bull’s eye followed him around the camp. It was just a matter of time.

It wouldn’t be the best sex, given the situation and setting, (He personally preferred more pillows, and perhaps a featherbed… he didn‘t demand silk sheets) but it would be sufficient. It would be enough to stop his desires shining like a beacon in his sleep.

So that night, Dorian and Bull shared the entire bottle - with a small sample for his Amica (though he still wasn’t brave enough to call her that in public. Anything could happen, their relationship was still new.) and the Champion, and after everyone else had retired to their tent, he showed up at Bull’s, dressed for the occasion in his cleanest set of clothes, the cologne he almost hadn’t packed, and the knowledge of the red silk smalls giving him a outward confidence that he lacked.

He thrust his chin in the air and told him, “I‘ve seen how you look at me, Bull.”

He wasn’t prepared for the laughter. “And how do I look at you, Dorian?”

Dorian suddenly felt a lot less sure of how this was going to fall out. “You think I’m pretty.”

And the Bull had shrugged, “I think my Dawnstone armor is pretty. Doesn’t mean I want to fuck it.”

Dorian’s eyes had narrowed, “You sleep with everyone else. Why not me? You‘ve been flirting hard enough… were you just leading me on with all that talk of ‘conquering‘ me?”

And Bull’s eye had dropped away from him. Achievement unlocked: Fuck Qunari Warrior. “Look, Dorian, I… I’m not sure you know what you’re asking. I don‘t want to hurt you, but what you need…”

“Oh, please,” Dorian had scoffed, “I know what I need. My safe word is Katoh. I assume you know the basic etiquette?”

And Bull had recoiled flatteringly quickly, “You speak Qunlat?” His reaction to his word choice was very satisfactory, just as Dorian had planned.

“Know your enemy,” Dorian had smirked, and watched Bull‘s eyes grow dark. “You want me to tell you to fuck me in your native tongue? Because you will be with me tonight, _Hissrad_.” He was unable to continue his prepared speech (and it had been going so smoothly, too!) as his legs had been swept out from underneath him, and he found himself pinned beneath the heavily muscled warrior, his wrists entirely swallowed up by the larger man’s hands, and already panting for breath. “Much better,” Dorian managed to purr instead of gasp (it was too early in the proceedings for gasping). “Now, I want you to…”

“Don’t top from the bottom,” Bull grunted at him, and then bent down to kiss him.

Bull didn’t just ‘kiss’, he had, as he had promised so many weeks before, conquered him, with teeth, and tongues. He made a not so simple kiss far more.

Something Dorian had never experienced before.

He made their meeting of mouths _romantic._ The sweep of his tongue into his mouth had emotions behind it that Dorian wasn’t sure he was ready to face. It was hard lips, demanding things of him, melting into softness and tender regard, and a nip on his lower lip when he didn’t respond quickly enough due to surprise. It spoke less of lust and more of the kind of devotion that Dorian was positive he didn’t deserve.

And possibly didn’t want. Possibly? Probably…

It shook him up, but even while he fought the sudden urge to pull away, to run back to his tent in defeat, to whimper ‘Katoh’, he made himself stay, to see this through. It was just a kiss. He wouldn’t cry ‘Katoh’ over a tender kiss. He wasn’t afraid of the illusion of love. They were playing a game.

It was just a game. And there were the demons to think about. He was doing this for his beauty sleep. Hard to keep up the mass execution of every enemy in the Western Approach when you were yawning.

But Fasta Vass, what a kiss. Bull’s weight pressed him into his bedroll while his tongue coaxed Dorian‘s out, his nose was assaulted with the smell of the man - not unpleasant at all. He smelled like spices from Seheron, something exotic, nothing as prosaic as Sandalwood or cinnamon, but musky, with a hint of the chocolate that the man hoarded like it was made of the purest silver. He tasted of that chocolate, too, the liquid stuff he drank after dinner, nearly overwhelmed by the traces of the peach brandy, and Dorian found himself arching up, trying to reach that mouth, devour it, not for the taste, but for what the man seemed to be offering. Something far more satisfying than the simple joining of bodies, or feeding of certain appetites.

And Bull pulled away. Dorian had half expected it, but didn’t expect to feel so needy at his withdrawal. He whimpered. “Kiss me again,” he sounded far less demanding and more whiny than he intended. Shit.

“Earn it,” Bull ordered.

And Dorian was lost. “Make me,” he countered, fighting his own desire.

“I can do that,” Bull grunted, raising his eye back to meet his own. “You sure? You had a lot to drink…”

“I’m not that drunk,” Dorian wriggled underneath him purposefully, already feeling the man’s rock-hard arousal. “I knew you wanted me,” he challenged. “You can’t deny it now.”

“Neither can you,” Bull growled, and Dorian thrilled, as the man tightened his grip.

“Admit that I’m pretty,” Dorian demanded, still trying to take charge.

“Oh, you’re pretty. Pretty dangerous,” Bull reminded him, and transferred his other wrist into his left hand (How were his hands so large? Dorian was not used to feeling fragile.) to start working on the buckles fastening Dorian’s only slightly wrinkled shirt closed. “You don’t think I know that you could shock me into next week? Light me on fire and leave me burning? Freeze me solid and take what you want? Is that what you are planning, mage? You planning to get me all vulnerable and then attack? I’m your enemy, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” Dorian hissed.

“Yeah, well, you aren’t getting any of that,” Bull frowned, his tone changing as he focused on the other man‘s now mostly bare chest, tracing a nipple with a surprising gentle thumb. “That’s not what you need, Dorian.”

Dorian slumped, surprised and almost disappointed, and then his curiosity was peaked, “What do I need, then?”

Bull looked up at him, and Dorian realized belatedly that the man had a lovely eye. Grey, like the water at the Storm Coast, but far more placid. It wasn’t the eye of a liar, or of a warrior. He stopped there, completely unwilling to admit what he did see in the depths of that eye. “I’m not going to tell you. If I tell you, you’ll leave. You’ve got your safe word, and I promise, I’ll give you what you need, Dorian. Do you trust me?” The larger man’s face looked a little worried, the skin around his horns pulled taut so his forehead could wrinkle.

Dorian licked his lips. He was scared, not knowing what was going to happen. But to come this far and back down was inconceivable. But _trust…_ “That’s a lot to ask.”

“You don’t trust me, we don’t go any further than kissing,” Bull was firm. “I’ve had your back for months now, Dorian. I could have killed you at any time. Do you trust me or not, ‘Vint?” His voice was commanding again, and Dorian whimpered again, despite himself, before he answered, nearly despite himself, in a very small voice that didn‘t sound like him at all.

“I trust you.”

Bull rewarded the phrase with another kiss, filled with passion and that… something else, even going so far as to roll onto his back and let Dorian straddle him, clutching his shoulders until his chipped nails (sadly, he was in great need of a good manicure after all the sand - how embarrassing) were piercing the Qunari’s hide. The hiss from Bull went straight to his cock. “Fuck, Dorian, you feel so good there…”

All the time Bull was pressing him down against himself with his hands on his hips, and plundering his mouth as if he was the hero in one of Varric’s blighted romances - the one with the pirate queen and the Qunari. (He had felt dumber by the time he had finished the entire thing, but he had finished it. He blamed Cassandra‘s enthusiasm and the lack of decent reading material.)

Dorian decided promptly to just stop thinking, because Bull had rolled him back over, a hand behind his head, and his other hand trailing far lower, cupping him and he could feel just how into the whole situation Bull truly was. It would be an insult if he didn’t give the other man the same attention. He had the impression that Bull had wanted this as much as he had…

Perhaps that wasn’t preposterous. Dorian was very pretty.

Bull was thorough.

By the time that Bull had taken him over the edge (for the third time - and that had never even been an option in any similar situation that he had found himself in), Dorian had no idea how loud his noises were, how they echoed against the walls of the canyon that they had camped in, or what kind of things he had promised in his release. He hoped they weren’t too embarrassing.

He was fully aware, however, as he redressed some hours later (leaving his red silk smalls behind him as a… well, he hesitated to say ‘as a thank you’ or as some sort of a token, but…) and slipped out of the Bull’s tent while the other man slept, to wash in the nearby spring (Cleanliness was more important than safety.), that he had never in his life experienced anything like ‘riding the Bull’.

He failed to return to his tent at all, instead taking a turn at watch, and staring into the fire blankly, trying not to panic, and completely failing.

He ought to say ‘Katoh’. He ought to tell Asta he was unwell, and have her send him back to Skyhold, or possibly to someplace Orlesian, where he could forget all about how Bull had seemed to care. Forget about the sweet things the larger man (and how nice it was that he was so large - Bull's body had engulfed him.  He had never felt so safe, with the larger man at his back.) had whispered to him, and demanded of him… how he had praised him as if...

It was just a game, he reminded himself, wrapping his arms and a blanket around himself to protect against the desert‘s freezing nights.

He was just a... playmate.  That was the closest equivalent, surely.  Absolutely not a lover.

 


	5. Not weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Definitely safer for work.

Instead of doing what he should, the next night he returned to the Bull’s tent, despite an entire day of deflecting teases and innuendos, only half of which were from Bull. Even his Amica (and he was definitely not calling her any such thing in public after the ribbing she had given him today about the noises he had made), who was usually so kind and thoughtful, felt free to raise her eyebrows and snigger at Bull‘s enthusiasm over their first (and second, and third) encounter. “Three times! Three!”

Had the man no discretion?

Fasta Vass, the man had seen through his ‘accidental’ memento - into his very soul. Dorian didn’t do intimacy. Their (and when had he started using joint pronouns when thinking of them together?) whole situation was impossible.  Bull had to realize...

But he couldn’t seem to say ‘Katoh’. His obsession only grew worse, though the dreams had stopped entirely. The reality of Bull’s… lovemaking (and he cringed visibly the first time he realized that was what it was best called) was far better than anything he had been tempted with before. It wasn’t that he couldn’t be rough, he regularly was, much to their mutual satisfaction, but that his care came through the pain. He made sex mean something.

Was he truly this weak? To fall for the first person who showed him a semblance of affection? It was supposed to be a game.

He started to rebuff Bull in public, distancing himself, closeting himself in his own tent immediately after eating the evening meal. He could fix this. He needed to be cold, impartial. It had only been about sex. It was a game. Not…

But he couldn’t sleep without him, and he ended up curled against Bull‘s far warmer body, night after night, long after the larger man had succumbed to sleep. If Bull noticed, he didn’t say a word after that first time, and he woke him up so gently, and had him crying out (their noises silenced with a simple glyph now) before breakfast.

He woke up this way day after day, merging into weeks.

He asked Asta to send him home, when Vivienne arrived. A little physical distance would keep him from his own lack of control. And get him away from all the Maker-be-damned sand. (That was precisely the excuse he gave her. He was fucking miserable except…)

It wasn’t about _love._ (He mentally cringed at the first time the word had the audacity to cross his brain.) This was an unhealthy obsession with the forbidden, and he would conquer it.

He was not healthy.

***

Skyhold did not make it better. The Commander had confronted him genially about his ‘relationship’ - as if the man could talk, given the awkward nature of his flirtation with the Inquisitor - and Dorian had lashed out against his gentle inquiries and confusion over how things like this were seen in the Imperium with offensive words.

He regretted it immediately, but saved his wincing and self-flagellation for after the Commander had left him alone. No wonder he had so few friends, if he treated them thusly. Asta and the Commander were disgustingly cute. And no one had been happier than him the morning before they left for the Western Approach, fashionably late, with the Inquisitor having to take a walk of shame back to her quarters, her face redder than a late season Embrium. Except for perhaps the Commander, who didn't appear at all. An excellent sign.

His Amica was adorable. So was the Commander.

He immediately resolved that he would not do such a thing any longer. He couldn’t bring himself to apologize openly to him, but he could improve his behavior.

He didn’t need to take out his conflicting emotions and possible… sexual addiction (yes, that’s what it was) to a warrior of the Qun on anyone that he wanted to be friendly with.

But he missed Bull’s scent. And the fucking dreams were back.

He was weaker by far than he had feared.

***

And then the Inquisitor returned, with everyone alive and with tales of reversed Tranquility and blood mages influencing Wardens at Adamant. Dorian hardly cared, except that he had to avoid the Herald’s Rest entirely, because the Charger’s second was apparently under the impression that he and Bull were… involved.

The soporati had had the audacity to tell him that he hoped that ‘the Chief’ made him happy.

Dorian had been confused at first. The concept that he was someone that should be ‘happy’ was utterly foreign to him. And if ‘happiness’ was the emotion that welled up in his gut, twisting and making him feel like he was going to vomit every time he was in the same room with the man... (He kept slouching in that chair. Surely there were larger chairs, if Bull couldn’t sit normally in that one. If he didn’t sit up straight he was going to do something drastic, like walk over there and sit on his lap- or set the chair on fire. Yes, that was far more likely.)

Pardon him for saying so, but he would rather be miserable. Because ‘happiness’ sucked balls. And not in a good way. He had to shut his brain down for a few minutes before he started reminiscing.

He didn’t fail to notice, however, that the barmaids and Chantry sisters slowly stopped talking about Bull and started talking about some recruit named ‘Jim’ instead. Apparently the man was hung like one of Dennett’s Forders. He found himself oddly uninterested, choosing to spend his time just out of sight of the training ring, just when Bull was working with the Chargers, half praying the man would just put on a shirt and half thanking the Maker that no god was listening to him.

He made himself stop when he realized that he was borderline stalking the man, and that Bull knew he was there, flexing and winking at him in that damnably cute way.

And then the letter arrived, and Dorian discovered he had no idea just how miserable he had ever been before.

He railed at Asta and the Commander, knowing that it wasn’t their fault that his father knew everyone in Thedas, and that he was fully capable of using his connections to track his son down. He couldn’t even blame Felix for sharing his location, Maker rest his soul. He resented their sympathy, and what he mistook (purposefully) for pity.

He rode to Redcliffe (again), refusing to take any notice of Bull, who, by his behavior, was hurt. Dorian squashed the guilt down into that charming decorative box, concentrated on the likely identity of this ‘family retainer‘, and tried to focus on Asta and the Commander, who were still so tentative with each other as they traveled, blushing and barely talking, except for the soft affectionate murmurs that surrounded their camp after Dorian was already in his tent, alone, while Bull sharpened his axe just outside.

Evidently he still had some work to do. Did they have to be so sweet? Why weren’t they just fucking each other, already?!

And then there was no retainer.

And he couldn’t stay in denial any longer.

Bull refused to leave him alone with his father, and Dorian was not… unhappy with that outcome. He hadn’t forgiven his father, by any means, but somehow, having the truth of what lay between them out in the open was healing. And having someone there, promising to protect him against his own father…

In all his (extensive) experience he had never before experienced the meaning of the phrase ‘warm fuzzies‘. He must be getting soft.

His friends (plural… how alarming) had been there for the big reveal - though Asta had always known (despite the massive amount of flirting back in Haven) and he suspected that the Commander had suspected for nearly that long - so it changed nothing… and yet everything had changed.

His anxiety - almost always nearly at peak since his departure from the Imperium - was subsiding. His muscles felt looser, and he grew confident and a bit brazen. He talked Bull into leaving the two some chocolate, flirting outrageously in the (successful, naturally) attempt, and left enough food and a bottle of wine for them to share when they reached wherever they were headed.

And then he took Asta’s bedroll right off her horse, flashing a wicked smile at Bull who merely raised one eyebrow at his stunt. “I get cold,” Dorian asserted. “Asta won’t mind.”

“Right,” Bull grunted, breaking out of the monosyllables for nearly the first time since they had left Skyhold. “I think the Commander might. Still, might be nice for them to get a little closer. Shit‘s getting old.”

Together, they rode out of Redcliffe.

Vashante Kaffas. Dorian pulled up the reins of his horse when the word crossed his mind. Were they together? He hadn’t been with anyone else, but the Bull had been in great demand before…

He realized that despite what Bull’s second in command assumed, he had no idea where they currently stood.

He had behaved abominably. Fasta Vass, was he going to have to ask for forgiveness? How he wanted to be forgiven…

“Horse got a rock?” Bull had stopped just ahead.

“I…” Dorian shook his head, unable to comprehend it, and shaking a little with what he needed to ask, even while he determined that he was going to do just that. “I’m just realizing that I told my father some very unwise things about myself today. There’s no way I can go back to Tevinter now.”

“Their loss,” Bull grunted.

“But not yours?” Dorian challenged, posing himself attractively.

“I know what I’m missing,” Bull countered. “But I don’t push where I’m not wanted.” That eye was far too dark, pulling him in like the tide. (Ugh. Tide metaphors and the Qun. He must stop reading Varric‘s novels. They were trite and uninspired.)

“You have a tendancy to make incorrect assumptions,“ Dorian thrust his chin outward, “and your logic is flawed. I‘ve noticed this before.”

“Is that right?” Bull looked like a predator now. “That’s interesting.” And then abruptly, the man stopped playing games. “Dorian, I haven’t been with anyone else. Not since…”

Dorian bluffed through the sudden swelling of emotion. “I have been known to ruin people for anyone else. I apologize.” He allowed his eyes to beg for the forgiveness that he couldn’t come out and ask for. (Why was it so hard?)

“No apology needed,” Bull was far too focused now, and Dorian’s breath came short and intense. “You wanna keep going?” He was circling his confused horse around him now, and Dorian had to shut his eyes against the urge to throw himself at the man.

“How far are we going?” Dorian murmured, not bothering to turn his head. “Everyone knows you are a bad, bad man, Bull. I’d hate to ruin your carefully crafted reputation with something that resembles… a commitment.” His heart nearly stopped with the word. (Such a harmless word. Better than all the alternatives that had ran through his mind. Shit.)

“You mean to ruin me, then?” Bull smiled, all teeth, but his eyes were tender. “Fuck me senseless and leave me wrecked and begging for more of you? Sounds like my job, Dorian, not yours.  When you gonna stop topping from the bottom?”

Dorian opened his eyes and met Bull’s openly, with a slow upsweep of his too long eyelashes. They were one of his best features, dark against his smoky grey eyes. “I know who was wrecking who in the Approach.”

“I had the impression it was mutual,” Bull shoved his horse even closer, and loomed. “You wanna be bad, too, Dorian?”

“That depends.  How bad does the Iron Bull want to be?”

“I’ll show you back at Skyhold,” Bull bent down and seized him then, biting his lower lip and claiming him harshly, Dorian just beginning to melt, his arms reaching up to twine around his neck, before Bull broke away far too quickly.  At least he had the satisfaction of seeing Bull pant for him. “You don’t stop riding until I say so. Not until we’re home.”

“You want me to ride?"  Dorian raised a haughty eyebrow.  "How about a gamble then?  If you can catch me, you can have me, Bull.” And he had clucked his horse into a canter.  Not a gallop.  He wanted to be caught, after all.  It was still a game.

He could feel Bull’s eyes on him for a moment, and heard the man curse at length in Qunlat before pushing his own horse into action.

He had never been so wrong about anything in his life. He was not weak.

He was powerful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to keep going, but this was the original end. But I'm going to touch on Adamant (because Bull went into the Fade and Dorian didn't), and a few other events before I wrap up at last. Story isn't over, I think.


	6. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for depression, despair, possession, loss of loved ones and probably about a million more that I haven't seen.
> 
> At least I know how this ends? lol Hang in there. It is getting better. Well, possibly not the writing, but Dorian's mental state will be. Soon. I swear.

That heady feeling of being in control lasted up until the Inquisitor and his… the Iron Bull fell through the Veil at Adamant, as reported by Cullen as he returned, far more slowly than his departure, to the courtyard where the Pride demon summoned by the Wardens had been killed.

Cole made only slightly more sense than usual as he channeled the lost companions. “Bull’s afraid. Stay out of my head! Yours holds no interest.” The spirit shook his head, “No, that was before. This one is different.” Dorian accosted Cole in his attempt to determine what had happened. “Cole - are they alive?” Cullen was surrounded by Wardens, liaising when Blackwall disappeared into the background. The Commander’s explanation stabbed deep, left him bleeding from wounds no one else could ever see.

If this was what it meant to… care, (How careful he was having to be with his language lately, it was a trifle ridiculous. Not that he was going to stop any time soon.) then it was better to never feel… it… at all.

Cole’s babbling about his Amica’s ongoing war on stairs (What, even in the Fade?) helped not at all, but he couldn’t drag himself away from the spirit, snapping at the mages who were trying to draw him along to assist with cleanup. Those tasks were for people who didn’t have what might be the only two people that they... cared about traipsing through the Fade like it was a trip to the seaside.

He never realized that he had hunched down into a corner, far away from everyone else mentally if not physically, or that tears were slowly tracing kohl tracks down his cheeks. Fasta Vass, if neither one came back…

He couldn’t take comfort in the Commander’s assertion (What would a Templar know about the Fade? _Nothing_.) that they would return through the rift just before them. They were already dead and gone, and he was all alone again.

But this time the surge of self-pity (it wasn’t grief) wasn’t enough to pull him to his feet, get him back on the proverbial horse. Even the thought that Asta had Bull (and Bull had her to keep him from going catatonic over the small, infinitesimal issue that he was actually in the Fade, where demons spawned) wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough, ever again.

There was no hope left.

They were all going to die here, they just hadn't realized it yet. The tears turned to ice, and the air around him attempted to crystallize when Cole started his insane poetic mumbling about Nightmare demons. Dorian started rocking. Not his Amica. Not again. The Maker was cruel, to make her relive… he had known she was suffering the entire trip to Adamant, as had most of her companions. He had lived through nightmares of his own in the past weeks. That the blood magic rite had worked, and he was married, with a child on the way, his mind trapped in a mockery of real life, screaming on the inside while his father beamed with salacious pride at his own success. That Bull went back to the Qun, mowing down Asta unrepentantly as she protested that she had trusted him. That Bull… rejected him, saying it was great while it lasted, but he had found someone else, someone younger and more adventurous. So many old fears, rehashed, and so many new ones for the demon to feed from.

But unlike his Amica, he could fight them off while he slept. She had no power in the Fade that the anchor did not give her, a silent hostage to the Nightmare’s will.

No doubt that hobo apostate was too absorbed in the once in a lifetime (and what a short lifetime it was going to be) experience to be any real help. With that, Dorian was suddenly furious, the icy tracks of his tears melting and evaporating as he heated up. After this, he was coming with Asta no matter what. If she came back, he was never being left behind to worry again. How she could be so selfish… to leave him behind when she and Bull were all that he had in the world…

He had another moment of epiphany that they were never coming back.

There would be no more sleepy mornings where his… the Iron Bull convinced him life was worth waking up for. No more wine and research parties in the library with Asta. No more making fun of Ostwick‘s provincial manners and Tevinter‘s obsession with the colors black and red… no more anything.

And then Cole said the words, “Would he be my Kadan?” and Dorian’s heart stopped. He knew that word. It meant… heart, or something similar. Of all the places to need a copy of the writings of Koslun and a Qunlat lexicon… but it meant Bull was still alive.

He was _alive_. If Bull was alive, then Asta was alive, because Bull would never, ever allow Asta to die before him.

Chargers always finished the job. The Hissing Wastes had proved that.

He pulled himself to his feet, shakily, fisting his hands in determination. Cole’s voice, much deeper than it was usually, and with a rougher cadence than his usual mumblings, roared, “Not getting in my head, you fuckers!” He walked around to Cole, unblinking, _willing_ his… man’s victory. He fell back to his knees with Cole‘s announcement that this round of demons was dead as well, completely unaware that his robes were caught beneath his knees, tearing and stained with the remnants of demons and blood that pooled on the ground, his hands half-covered with the gruesome liquid. He gasped, taking his first deep breath since he had heard the news.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP! Let’s argue after we kill the giant Fear demon!” Cole spouted in something approximating Asta’s voice and Dorian sobbed in relief, losing track of the conversation for several long minutes in his tears and pain.

As he slowly drew back into himself, he realized the Commander was covering his eyes, trying to concentrate on the spirit’s words. Dorian marveled at how his Amica was so strong, to overcome not only her own fears, but all her companions’ as well. Her only fear was losing all of them.

She was brilliant, and fierce, and powerful. She was stronger than all of them together. And he had never told her.

And then:

“She is safe, it is driven back.” Cole breathed, shuddering, making eye contact with him, and then immediately launching into a debate between Clarel and Hawke and Asta about who was going to stay behind. The rift spit behind him, and Dorian took another deep whimpering breath.

“A Warden started this, a Warden will end it,” Cole answered. “They come.”

The rift spat again behind him, and Dorian turned, very slowly. Bull was down on one knee, breathing heavily through a mask of blood and smeared Vitaar. He raised his eyes to Dorian, panting.

Dorian was already there, approaching the rift in what felt like slow-motion, as if caught in a time rift, but in reality was swifter action than he had ever been capable of before. The rift was spitting again, and Hawke had sprawled out, and helped away. One more time, and Asta was caught by her Commander, sealing the rift and babbling incomprehensibly to him while he merely held her far too tightly and abandoned his duty in favor of taking care of her alone. With Amica safe, Dorian had eyes for only one other person.

Bull was still staring at him with a single haunted eye.

“How could you,” he clenched his fist, his (still cracked and broken) fingernails digging into the scars left from his birthright in his palm. “You _left_ me. Alone. You absolute…” His words failed him, six languages of offensive words not enough for his pain and anger.

“Dorian…” Bull started, and Dorian took his staff from his back and swung it once, hard across the kossith’s stomach, and the man winced, and then looked… less tense? What bizarre kind of reaction was that? But it didn’t fucking matter, because Bull was there, still trying to talk to him. _Alive._ “Shit, Dorian, I can explain…” Dorian dropped his staff, uncaring about whether the focus shattered, whether he destroyed the last known staff of Archon Lovias, and grabbed the man’s horns, hauled him to his feet and kissed him, in front of all the remaining Wardens and the Inquisition.

It tasted horrible, like mud (They had mud in the Fade?) and dust, and spider guts, and Fear, and Dorian couldn’t care less. Bull was alive, _alive._ He pulled back at last, and wiped his mouth with the back of one shaking, stained hand, dirt and blood and demon ichor ingrained in every pore. “Don’t you ever do that again.” He ordered, imperious.

“I won’t,” Bull shuddered. “Trust me. I fucking hate demons.” He looked sheepish, “Might need your help, if you’re willing.”

“If I'm…” Dorian started to question, but he wasn't ready for the answer.  There were more important things to worry about. He shook his head, in an attempt to find some sense of normalcy in what was insanity and chaos. Someone had to be sane right now. Odd that it had to be him. But stranger things had already happened today.  His Qunari... partner had just returned, alive and uncompromised from the Fade.  Surely questions could wait? “You need to get cleaned up. Where’s Stitches?” He asked the pertinent question calmly, greatly at odds with his earlier rage and despair.  He couldn't even find his charming little decorative box at the moment, but he didn't seem to need it.  Such a bizarre day.

“Eh, it’s mostly not mine,” Bull scratched around his left horn, looking awkward.  "Don't worry about it."

“Don’t argue with me, Bull,” Dorian’s voice was cold and nearly a whisper. “You will find your medic, and you will get your wounds treated. Now.”

Bull’s eye started to leak, warm and wet as it refocused on him. “Crap, Dorian… I… I didn‘t realize… Do you... Did I... Were you...”

“I will take care of you this time,” Dorian barely managed, from between his teeth. “Now, move.”

 


	7. Not In Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW, as I fade to black.

Evidently Clarel wasn’t able to defeat the Nightmare, because Bull started awake that night, shaking with fear, and mumbling to his ‘Tama’ (Dorian vaguely remembered that being the abbreviated form of a sort of teacher, in his admittedly biased lessons about the Qun.) that the demons were going to eat his brain.

Dorian, marveling at the amount of concern (it most certainly wasn’t anything else, thank you very much for your opinion, and mind your own business) welling up in him, calmed him.

But the next night Bull asked for something completely different. He didn’t want comfort, he wanted…

“You want me to…” Dorian was surprised, looking down between the leather ties in his hands and Bull’s wrists. “Bull, you could snap these in a minute if…”

“I don’t just want you to, I need you to,” Bull argued, his eye leaking again. Twice in as many days - was he destined to make this grown man cry? Probably. Fasta Vass, he didn‘t need the emotions that came along with that tidbit of knowledge. “Fuck, Dorian, you don’t think I know what I’m asking? You want me to ask someone else? I don’t want to. I want you. I trust you. Those demons, the big one and all the little ones, they fucked with me. I gotta get them out. Gotta prove that they can’t scare me. That I’m bigger and badder and… This is the only way that I…”

And Dorian understood. “You need me - a mage,” your mage remained unsaid, “to tie you up and beat you… with a stick.”

“Well, I could have Cassandra or Asta do it, but… I want you,” Bull couldn’t meet his eye. “It’s… a Qun thing. Strength training.”

“Bullshit,” Dorian countered bluntly, already moving to bind Bull’s hands behind him. “But get on your knees, _Hissrad_. You want me to beat you?” He arched a single eyebrow, disdain dripping from his features. “Beat the demons out of you?”

“Yes, please,” Bull had nearly whimpered, his eye sparking with remembered fear and - Holy Maker, was that anticipation?

“Then kneel, and take it,” Dorian took a deep breath. He had never been on this side of the equation before, but it was possible that he truly… cared for this man. And he knew all too well the kind of release that could come from a little… punishment. He closed his eyes. “What’s your safe word?” he demanded.

Bull’s eye landed on Dorian’s staff propped against the wall, “Lovias,” he muttered. “I’ll go with Lovias. Smart ass magister. Sounds appropriate, given present company.”

Dorian relaxed a bit - if he had chosen ‘Katoh’, he probably wouldn’t be able to go through with it. “Have some respect,” he snapped harshly. “I am Altus Pavus, _Hissrad_ , and you will address me properly.” He raised his chin high. “Say you understand, and use complete sentences, Qunari.” He let himself sneer, as his father would have (though he was pretty sure his father had never been in _quite_ this position… and he really didn‘t want to think about that anymore), “You can speak in complete sentences, I assume?”

“Yes, Altus Pavus, I understand,” Bull was already panting.

Dorian finished tying his wrists, fighting the urge to ask if it was too tight. He knew it wasn’t - Bull could snap it if he needed to. Instead, he took another deep breath, “Then tell me what you want me to do.”

“Beat me with a stick?” (Damn it, was the Bull trying not to laugh? If he laughed…)

Dorian snapped the cane against his stomach, but not even hard enough to leave a mark. “What is my title?!” He demanded impatiently.

“Sorry,” Bull grunted, “Beat me with the stick, Altus Pavus.” He looked amused, but luckily didn‘t actually laugh. Speaking of tide metaphors, his laughter filled him like a flood. "Like you mean it, Altus Pavus.”

Dorian couldn’t have resisted his laugh, and Bull didn’t need his concern or his sense of humor right now, he needed his… judgment.

Dorian’s hands were shaking, but he complied, this time leaving a mark. “Keep your eyes open, Hissrad,” he hissed, hating how easily he fell into this role, into calling him that horrible name. “Eyes open and on me.” Bull focused on him, nearly eagerly, and Dorian let his eyes fall away.

And choked. The man was erect. His arms began to shake, but he knew he had to keep going. Bull needed this, and - he didn’t want to do it. And he wanted to do it. It was complicated, damn it! Don‘t judge!

He didn’t want him to go to Asta, or Cassandra and ask them for help. Or any of the Chargers. Or anyone else. He wanted - he shut down his thoughts and kept going, hearing only the larger man’s grunts and compliments when he landed a particularly effective blow.

He stopped entirely when he fully realized that he wanted to be the one Bull came to for everything he needed. “Shit,” he muttered, nearly dropping the stick. The welts criss-crossed the Bull’s stomach and back now, a web of small lines - but none of them bleeding. Dorian was nothing if not precise, in everything he did. “Have you had enough, _Hissrad_?”

“No, Altus Pavus,” Bull replied obediently. Dorian closed his eyes slowly behind him where he wouldn‘t be able to see.

“Then we need to try something different,” he managed. And then the idea came. It might work. Maybe? “Tell me, Hissrad, what is your purpose?”

“To advance the Qun, protect the Qun’s interests, report on the Inquisition’s decisions, and protect the Inquisitor, Altus Pavus,” Bull supplied, still so eager. And Dorian smacked the stick against his ass, hard enough to make the other man curse and look at him with something approaching respect. “Good one, Altus Pavus.”

“Wrong,” Dorian hissed in his ear, stalking around him. “You have a far different purpose now.” He pulled back a single horn, to expose the man’s throat, and kept talking, “You are here to provide me with company, Hissrad. Now, what is your purpose?”

Bull was breathing heavily, (Dorian suppressed his sudden impulse to embrace the man) was dripping with sweat and need. “Altus Pavus, you are my purpose.”

“Better,” Dorian purred, and as a reward (for him or for Bull, he couldn’t say which) gave the man a tender kiss on his jaw that blended into a harsh bite, leaving a mark that welled up purple almost immediately. “You love that, don’t you, Hissrad?”

“Yes, Altus Pavus,” Bull moaned. “Please, Altus Pavus, would you untie me so that I can serve my purpose?” Damn it, the Bull’s eye was twinkling at him again. Don’t you dare laugh, you…

“Say the word and I will do just that,” Dorian smirked, shifting his weight to his right leg with his arms folded across the stick. “But does the mighty ‘Iron Bull’ have so little restraint?” He bent down and focused on the other man’s still unblinking eye.

“Not where you are concerned, Altus Pavus,” Bull replied softly and longingly.

“Then say it,” Dorian cracked the stick across his stomach again. “You want to serve your purpose, then say the word, and I’ll release you.”

But Bull shook his head and Dorian nearly cursed. Why would the man not give in? “I need more, Altus Pavus.”

“What do you think you need?” Dorian spat harshly. “Do you think you need me to beat you bloody? To leave you bruised and aching?” He threw down the stick. “Am I not supposed to know what you need? If you serve me, then break your ties, the Iron Bull.”

Bull raised his eyes to him. “I…”

“Break them,” Dorian ordered again. “I know what you need better than you do. You’re afraid of demons? Want to prove that you’re ‘bigger and badder’? I spend almost every night with demons, Bull, invading my dreams, taking on your fucking appearance more often than not. So, _Hissrad_ , are you going to break your ties and touch me? Show how fucking unafraid you are of the demons that play with me in my sleep?” Dorian leaned back in, “Or are you afraid of me? Or perhaps jealous? That they get to have me, and you don’t?”

Bull was straining now, his chest muscles tensing as he tried to break the bindings.

“You hate demons? Then defeat mine,” Dorian challenged him. “Or are you not strong enough?”

It was the final insult, and Bull broke free, with a strained roar, surging back to his feet and sweeping Dorian up. Oh Maker, what had he done? A little surge of what felt like anticipation and fear simultaneously tried to swamp him. This was either going to be amazing or a complete failure, just like so many other things in his life.

“While you were in the Fade, I was crying _ice_. A despair demon nearly had me frozen.“ Dorian challenged him again. “You will warm me up, and then you will allow me to…” he hesitated. Up until now in their relationship he had always been… but Bull needed this, and he… wanted this, far, far, too badly… and he fucking… cared. Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Fuck me, please, Altus Pavus,” Bull whispered, entirely too meekly, and finally Dorian nodded.

“Since you asked so nicely,” he concluded, his chin in the air. “I will.”

Dorian reached out a hand and laid his (rather better than the first time he had used it) silencing glyph on the fabric of the tent.  "Get the oil out of my bag," he ordered the man, ( _his_ man) refusing to look him in the eye as he collected himself.  Maker, he was already aching. "And then lay down on your back."

He heard rustling, gentle rustling as Bull obeyed, and he turned.  He couldn't stop the soft smile.

The light of the single lantern lit up the muscles (such muscles) spread out for him with a soft golden glow - turning the kossith's skin silver instead of flat grey.  The shadows were playing games with each other with every breath he took.  (So muscles could actually ripple... and if he wasn't careful he would be making more tide/pond/water metaphors in reference to the man in front of him.  When this was over, he was going to have a bonfire and burn every copy of Varric's blighted books.)

Dorian removed the rest of his robes and crouched down, (Aware that the golden light was doing beautiful things with his own darker skin.  It's not narcissism when it's fact.  He was fucking gorgeous.) next to the other man.  "First, I'm going to heal these marks," Dorian instructed.

"I don't want..."

"Am I in charge or not?" Dorian snapped at the man.  "If you trust me, Bull, you will let me take care of you.  Or are you going to use your word over me taking the sting away?"

"No, Altus Pavus.  Sorry, Altus Pavus."  But Bull seemed... awkward now.

Dorian managed to channel what little healing talents (barely enough) he had into carefully healing the welts (not tenderly - he didn't do 'tender' any more than he did 'intimacy'), allowing himself to stroke Bull more than strictly necessary to get the job done.  (Irresistible) "Turn over," he ordered, his throat threatening to close off (and trying to ignore that the man had the largest erection he had ever seen).

He ran his fingers down the muscular glutes, holding the small bottle of oil in his other hand, and then, making a decision, turned out the lantern.

No guards would be snickering at their shadows in the night tonight.  This was... private.

***

The next morning, Dorian stared at the ceiling of their tent, for once, after a night of (Sex, it was sex, not lovemaking. Maker, that word should just go _away_.) with the Bull, absolutely not panicking about… certain emotions. Even though, in the haze of (what could only be called passion, because it certainly hadn’t been anything else) Bull had called him that _word_ again.

_Kadan._

It had been a wonderful night. (The usual superlatives would have to suffice.  No gushing allowed.) Bull had been so… (there was that other word again… but he wasn’t going to say it. There were other alternatives. Caring was a bit overused already in his thoughts of the last few days, but affectionate might not be inaccurate. Passionate certainly applied, perhaps adoring wasn‘t too trite… but ultimately Dorian decided to go with a safe ‘responsive’.). The other man was an incredible lover, whatever role he was placed in.

They were both covered in teeth marks, Dorian sporting far larger ones, but Bull had more of them. (Dorian was very clever with his mouth.  Bull was most... appreciative.) And Bull was still asleep, curled up around Dorian as if the mage had been a very large stuffed nug. (Hopefully without the wings. The wings just made them ridiculous.)

Bull had told him, just before falling asleep in that sweet, sudden (How did he just manage to close his eyes and be gone?) way he had, that Dorian was gentle. (Gentle, while Dorian fussed over the stripes he had left on the man’s body, hating that he had done it.)

Bull had been proud of three times, but Dorian… Dorian had coaxed five out of his... lover. (He really must stop wincing at that word.) Bull definitely didn’t have a problem with coming.  (Though possibly it was at least partially due to his talents.  Just a bit.  Perhaps.)

And for the first time in a long time, Dorian felt like he was enough for someone. No, not just enough, _more than enough_.

Perhaps… perhaps he should do a little light reading? He could be wrong. (It had been known to happen.  Several times, actually, since he started... with Bull.  He suspected neither of them knew exactly what this was.) His basic Qunlat lessons and history of the Qun had been a very long time ago and subject to exactly the sort of bias that he usually cried foul on when debating with his Amica about the Imperium. It might not mean what he thought it meant.

Bull might not mean what he thought it meant. Perhaps it had… slipped out, in the mess and pleasure, like so many other words. (Not nearly as many from him as from Bull, naturally.) He squashed down the guilt about the part of himself that just wasn’t ready to embrace the idea of… more.  (A Pavus, especially this Pavus, did not jump in with both feet into water of an unknown depth.  That's how you ended up broken.)

He shouldn’t leap to conclusions. He would read a bit, learn more, be thoughtful and considered before he admitted that…

He stopped himself. He was admitting nothing except that he…

He liked this. Liked feeling that he was valued, needed, desired and possibly even…

No. Not that word. The very idea screamed ‘fallacy’. There was no room in the Qun for… that.

But he was in charge of his emotions again.

He was in control.

Mostly.

 


	8. Not in Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have read Andraste's Asta may recognize the letter I have posted here. Since I've told part of this story, excerpts from that fic will occasionally show up. But only when they were told from Dorian's POV in the first place.

Several weeks of reading about the Qun later, and one sunburn later (it certainly wasn’t sunbathing, when you laid out only to burn horribly in the nasty reflected sun of the Frostbacks), Dorian still wasn’t any clearer in his head about what Bull had actually meant.

Even talking with his dear Amica (still not using that word aloud) wasn’t enough to help sort through what he had learned. At least he was opening up enough to admit that he had… feelings for other people. Other people not himself. (He wasn’t naming any names, here. Don’t push it.)

She had been surprised that he was reading Koslun.

He had admitted that in some ways the Qun was very attractive - and it wasn’t just the pictures of naked and half naked Qunari warriors that some of the books featured - though they were a bit... distracting. Mainly it had to do with knowing who you were, and not letting anything get in the way of you serving your purpose.

Obviously Bull got off on that, given their escapade on the way back from Adamant. That had certainly gone well. Mostly.

Even if Bull had been more clingy than usual since, and almost giddy with something like joy, afterward.

Joy, of all the juvenile emotions to feel.

He had gone so far as to ask Asta, and even Cullen, but no one else had noticed the change in the man’s behavior. Odd, that he had been the first person to see that Bull was acting strange. He was almost bouncing around Skyhold, beaming at people.  Dorian, if he were another person entirely, might even have gone so far as to say he was adorable. Disgustingly so.

And then he found the entry about dragon teeth and their uses in jewelry, in conjunction with that word.

 _Kadan_.

And he had realized just how much he wanted to find one, to give one to his… Bull. It was the perfect gift - personal meaning, cultural significance, symbolic of some sort of bond.

Fine, fine, perhaps it meant more than sex. All these… feelings had to mean something, even if most of the time it meant that he felt like he was going to be sick or disemboweled momentarily. Lots of chances for disembowelment, after all.  Wasn't surprising that he mistook positive emotions for a feeling that he recognized better.

Naturally that meant he promptly blackmailed his Amica to let him help her kill a dragon, merely in order to get a tooth for his Amatus.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The word had slipped out of his brain before he could stop it. He couldn’t take it back now. Bull was that thing. To him.

His parents had never called each other that. His knowledge of that word (far more forbidden than any other word in the Tevene language in his experience) was limited to friends of the family, with far happier marriages than his mother and father had. It was a word for married people who were kind to each other, who cared for each other.

People who, at least on the outside, loved each other, like the Tilanis.

He was fairly certain what the Tilanis had had was real. Maevaris was certainly torn up after her husband’s death. Far more than his mother would ever be after his father passed, or vice versa.

He was halfway into a panic attack before he even realized his heart rate was speeding up, but with deep breaths he pulled himself back out slowly. The direction that such thoughts led him in were dangerous, and not good for his mental health. That was certain.

He needed space. It was a good thing that he had committed himself to going with Asta to the Exalted Plains. Bull wasn’t going. He needed to think, to clear his head in a space that didn‘t smell like Bull, where he wouldn‘t look up and see Bull staring back at him, with that goofy smile on his far too attractive face. Where he wouldn’t have inappropriate (and all too appropriate) words and ideas fall into his brain at extremely inconvenient moments.

Fasta Vass, he was a fool, but if he was going to be this sort of a fool, then he would do it right. With forethought, and deliberate intentions.

He would face his fears openly, and defeat them all.

He could be smart about this.

About being a fool.

Right.

***

He occupied his time in the Exalted Plains with thinking about Bull, reading Asta’s dirty letters to her Commander (his Amica did have a fine appreciation for the male form), and reading about Koslun.

He wasn’t going to convert or anything, but with the massive lack of decent reading material he had to do _something_ in between fighting the undead (They were so easy to turn to his own will - he almost found them charming, the poor things.)… and it made sense. In places.  Obviously not what they did to their mages - that was horrific.  But the philosophy was nearly sound. Especially if one was in the position of… seeing a 'representative' (Oh, all right, spy, damn it, will you just shut up?) of the Qun. (Seeing… he felt like a debutante. Not a pleasant feeling. He might as well use the words ‘courting‘ or ‘keeping company‘. Ugh. Why weren‘t there better words?! He needed something masculine and strong to describe this... situation.)

He had finally told Asta about selling his birthright amulet, hoping that telling the story would help heal the less physical scars. Odder yet, he had told her the entire truth, and she had looked at the scars on his hand with tears in her eyes.

She cried about him being hurt.

She was too good for him. Just like everyone else. He had been making progress, he thought, feeling empowered and liberated and logical… but his Amica’s tears broke all that down.

He had removed his hand from hers very gently, so as not to hurt her further. He hurt everyone he loved, in the end. But she had followed his hand and embraced him, and he had… he had cried into her shoulder, for everything he had lost.

And everything he had found.

And then Bull had written to him (he suspected his Amica had something to do with that), with the sort of brutal honesty he specialized in. The sort that broke him into little pieces and put him back together again.

And he had realized that he hadn’t even told him good-bye.

Maker’s Balls, he sucked at relationships (and only occasionally in the good way). He hadn’t even thought about how Bull would feel about his absence. They were at war. Both of them were subject to Asta calling on them at short notice, but he had never had someone to say good-bye to, before. But he had feared for Asta’s safety to such a degree that he hadn’t even considered staying behind with his… lover. (He had said it. Even if it was just in his mind, it was still progress, of a sort.)

But the letter he had written in return was not so benign. All his words (normally such sweet obedient things in his talented hands) were wrong.

_Bull,_

_What I read has no impact on you whatsoever. If I want to read Koslun, I will. I do have a few questions, however, so will take you up on your offer._

_I have missed you. Don’t read into that any more than what it says. If you write to me again, I may write back. If I have time. This mission has been very eventful, so I may not._

_We reached the Emerald Graves yesterday, and have set up camp. It is lovely here. Asta is considering rotating out Blackwall and sending for you. Don’t feel like you have to come. It would probably only take you a few days, riding hard, though._

_Sincerely,_

_Dorian Pavus_

It was all wrong. He had managed to tell him that he missed him, but had almost begged him not to come, instead of asking him to do the exact opposite. Fasta Vass, what was wrong with him?  (He absolutely did not agonize about it for nearly a week before he received an answer.)

But all the Bull had answered was that he was coming, and coming fast.

He was coming… because he had asked? Possibly it was the promise of the giants that Asta had mentioned in her letter. And the opportunity for smashing Red Templars, naturally. And he had likely been bored, sitting in the tavern and watching the Chargers get drunk. But deep down, Dorian knew that none of those were the true reason that Bull was on his way.

No, the truth was Bull was riding hard… to reach _him_.

He had never been so scared in his life.  And elated.  And confused.  And about a million other things that he couldn't quite put a name to.

Vashante Kaffas, he was in love.

Andraste preserve him. (But she wouldn’t. The woman’s own love life was a disaster, by all canonical accounts. If she couldn‘t save herself, she wasn‘t going to save any of her followers.)

He was screwed.


	9. Not a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a thank you to everyone for reading (and enjoying) something that I was almost sure wasn't good enough to post in the first place. You all are the reason I keep writing.

Apparently falling in love meant arguing about the Qun. And killing giants. And avoiding each other’s tents as if they were infested with giant spiders. Suitable for smashing with giant axes and killing with fire, of course. One realized fairly quickly how to deal with spiders, after the first hundred or so.

But also shoulder rubs and little kindnesses. Bull was being positively… sweet.

Dorian was melting into the combination of mental challenge and intimacy.

And shriveling into a husk from the lack of sex. There was no sex. _None._

It couldn’t continue, but Bull seemed determined not to touch him until… something happened. Dorian had no idea what that something could possibly be, and spent a great deal of time both trying to figure it out what the massive man was waiting for and trying to look irresistible so that Bull would just… lose control over his faculties and haul him off somewhere into the wilderness of the Emerald Graves and fuck the sense back into him. It was hard to look anywhere near irresistible while camping, for the record. He did his best, but he was running out of kohl and soap - the two most important elements. And even magic couldn‘t heat enough of a river to keep the water warm, because it fucking _flowed away_. Whoever designed this thing called ‘nature’ should be shot.

But fucking the sense back into him would be very agreeable. None of this gentlemanly nonsense (Qunari warriors shouldn’t be allowed to be genteel. If Dorian had been someone else entirely he might have said it was cute.) The Iron Bull just needed to be his barbarian self, kidnap his mage and haul him off to have lots and lots of mutually beneficent _sex_.

But instead they argued the finer points of life in Tevinter and life among the Qun until their ears bled (Completely from the wrong points of view. He had found himself defending the idea of Tamassrans earlier - what had gotten into him?), and they were both tense and huffing at the other’s intractable nature, and then Bull would rub his Maker-be-damned back (There were a lot of bears here, and giants, and the ground was rocky and hard in every fucking camp Asta had set up. He _ached._ ) until Dorian was groaning and Sera was making fun of the noises he was making, and then Bull would remove his (masculine, beautiful, scarred, talented) hands and go to fucking sleep. In his own damn tent.

It was intolerable.

And now that they were back at Skyhold, having effectively stopped the remains of the Civil War almost single handedly, shot down what was left of the Freemen of the Dales, _and_ isolated the final bastion of the Red Templars and put down their Lieutenant Carroll (Damn, his Amica was good. Blessed are the peacemakers indeed.), Bull was now pouring all his effort into teaching Krem (a decent sort - it wasn‘t his fault) how to perform a shield bash instead of seducing (not romancing) ‘Vint mages who were figuratively begging for him. Not that Dorian was stalking the Bull again. Not at all. He was above such things.

Fasta Vass, had he found someone else? The thought caused a tremor in that vague and vulgar area Sera would call his ‘guts’.

But there was no sign of anything like that. (Thank the Maker. There were entirely too many redheads around Skyhold.) All the blasted Qunari was doing now that they were back at Skyhold was grunting at everyone. Not that Dorian was watching him. Or paying any attention whatsoever. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.

Apparently Amica was the only one lucky enough to have the man open up to her. And she had shared her opinion about horrible, frightening, scary things that should only involve him and Bull. About rings and moving in together, and stopping with the sexual tension already. Innocent child - where there was as much pure charisma as he and Bull generated together there would always be sexual tension. It was as inevitable as the tide. (Damn it, not another metaphor about the tide and the Qun - stop or someone will die.)

And now he found himself on a mission to the Storm Coast (horrible place, he despised being wet), as Asta investigated a possible alliance, of all the unlikely things, with the Qun.

And promptly decided to sacrifice an entire dreadnought in favor of saving the Chargers while she told the Qunari ambassador where he could stick it and how, much to his unadulterated delight. And that Bull was Bull instead of Hissrad.

Dorian was only upset that she had gotten there before him. If she had waited a second longer he would have ordered the retreat, chain of command be damned. But because she had gotten there first, naturally he had been struck speechless with the lethal combination of her obscenities and eloquence as she told off the representative of an entire nation and way of life.

And this woman thought she wasn’t beautiful? He really must have words with Cullen about paying her more compliments. She was breathtaking. Her words made him glow: “You and your shitty demands can go fuck themselves. Sideways. I’m sure Bull can give you pointers if you can’t figure out how.” If she weren’t a woman he would propose and they would live happily ever after, snarking at each other over the coffee cups in the morning, and over their wine glasses in the evening, until they died of well-earned old age, buried under a mountain of books. What a way to go.

Shame she wasn’t a man, really. Except that would mean that Bull, now open-mouthed in shock, staring at his Amica as she regally swept her wet mess of hair (mercy, she needed a haircut - he must remember to have Solas give her a trim - and that was an oversight that he shouldn‘t have made, however preoccupied he had been with certain other people) back from her red face, flushed with anger and indignation and cold sea air, wouldn’t be his, either. This way, he got to have them both.

He had never felt so lucky. A dear friend - nearly a sister, as if his parents wouldn’t have killed each other rather than sleep together after he was conceived - and a… something else. Maybe.

And then she mentioned the dragon, and Dorian - occupied with escorting Gaat away from the meeting with Cullen - felt a surge of jealousy at the way Bull’s face lit up with enthusiasm. She was giving his Amatus (and there was that word again) a gift. To cheer him up. That should be his job.

He felt even more jealous when _his_ man told her she was hot when she was angry.

It was a good thing she was safely engaged to her Commander. Dorian would distract Bull later, assuming…

Assuming Bull still wanted him. Maybe it was over, after all. He had told her (and she was his boss, and he was being absurd…) about this fiasco of an alliance, after all. But he absolutely didn’t let his preoccupation with his love life get in the way of killing massive amount of Venatori. Not at all. His feelings did not get in the way of his job.

He felt better when Cullen and Asta made enough noise that afternoon to let the entire Northern Coast of Ferelden know that they were busy. (He didn’t ask, and didn’t want to know.) Bull didn’t come find him for similar activities, but he was with his Chargers, so that was…

No, it wasn’t fucking all right. Dorian stood up, shaking but determined. He was going to find the Chargers, too. He wanted to be with Bull, and that was okay. If he repeated it to himself a few extra times while he walked to the forward camp, that was okay, too. He needed the reassurance, that was all.

As long as Bull wanted to be with him. But he probably did. After all, he was who he was. He was pretty. He was witty. He dressed impeccably, and was a damn fine lover. (Maybe?)

He found his Amatus (definitely not saying that word out loud anytime soon) watching Stitches live up to his name, sewing up an unknown Charger who was watching the needle with a strange fascination.

“Maraas-Lok,” Bull grunted in his general direction. “Gave her some before. Numbs nerve endings when applied topically. Good for stitches. And celebrations.”

“Of course,” Dorian cleared his throat. He didn’t know how to do this. How to be there for someone who needed him. But he wanted to learn. He had to start somewhere.

Bull turned away, apparently realizing that Dorian had come looking for him. “Walk with me? Gotta check up on the rest of my guys.”

“Did anyone…” Dorian hesitated. He had witnessed the death of two Chargers, and both times, Bull had been inconsolable for days, pouring himself into further training to keep the rest from following their comrades.

“Nah, we’re good at ‘Vint mages,” Bull grinned at him, apparently relieved, if not completely at peace with Asta‘s decision on his behalf. “Experience is everything. Trained the boys myself.” Dorian sighed, frustrated at his own inadequacy to help (at least if he had trained to be a healer he would be able to assist Stitches), and Bull looked away. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Dorian asked, irritated.

“I keep calling you a ‘Vint,” Bull huffed. “I’ve been told it’s… offensive. Krem always uses it to refer to himself and so I got in the habit…” Maker’s Mirror, was he trying to be _sensitive_? Maker preserve him, that was almost charming. What nonsense.

“I’m not offended,” Dorian scoffed, and then decided all at once to let him have it with both cannon barrels, the words nearly falling over themselves to get out of his head. “Not about that, anyway. What offends me is that you have been… avoiding me. If it’s over- if we’re done- assuming that there was ever…” Bull was blinking at him - or was it winking? The man was impossible to read. “Fasta Vass, never mind,” Dorian broke off, and turned to go back to camp. “Forget I was here.”

“Dorian, did you think I…” Bull caught his arm and recoiled after getting a good look at his face. “Shit. You did. Dorian, if I were going to call things off, I’d tell you. I’ve just been messed up with this… fucking mess.”

“I figured that out,” Dorian lied. Maker, he was an ass. Why hadn’t he realized… He may be pretty, but apparently he was an idiot. “Too slowly, but… I still thought…” he let his eyelashes sweep up again, hoping it was still effective. “Well, you know what I think.”

“Not so much,” Bull was grinning. “Keep it to yourself, don’t you? I can read your body language a bit, but I’m never sure if you think I’m the best thing since sliced nug or the worst threat to Thedas since the first Blight.” They were a little ways away from everyone else now and Bull was pulling him in like a fishing line by his wrist.

“You’re better than any nug, sliced or otherwise,” muttered Dorian proudly, blushing and shivering at the limited contact. He was only touching his wrist, and his brain had gone numb. Had he really just compared him to a _nug_? Smooth.

And Bull’s eyebrows had gone up. “Coming from you, that’s… something. Something big.”

Dorian didn’t deny it.

He was being truthful, after all. Neither of them were liars.

Not any more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, I listen to what I call 'theme songs' while I'm writing certain characters, and I'm pretty sure that Bull has a thing for Taylor Swift. And Rachel Platten. And Pink.


	10. Not Worried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. I don't fade to black here, but I really don't think it's that explicit. Such a fuzzy line between mature and explicit.
> 
> People who have read Andraste's Asta may recognize a bit of the setting and dialogue here. Hopefully it's not redundant, because I did fade to black there. ;)

Dorian was reminding himself that he had wanted to be brought along on this expedition. Had blackmailed his Amica with the torrid novels hidden under her bed about the current King of Ferelden (or something like that - maybe it was his father? She had forced a lot of questionable reading material on him through the months, and he had a whole theory that Maric was involved with Loghain far more than either of the women in his party, not excepting his future wife, before he took the throne back… but that was a discussion for another time.) in order to be taken dragonhunting.

He wanted to be here.  Really.  It was for Bull’s present. He had never actually given an adult a present before. Not something that they wanted, anyway. It felt strange. Should it be accompanied by party decorations? Should he dress up? Leave it wrapped and unsigned on Bull‘s pillow so he would find it when he went to bed? What was the protocol involved?! Someone should teach these things!

But Bull was beautiful when he was fighting dragons. He would happily spend the rest of his life watching his… Amatus (He forced the word out in his own brain. It was safe there.) fight things that were bigger than he was. He was glistening in the humid air and brilliant sun, and his Vitaar was red and black against grey skin (Fine, so his Amica was right - ‘Vints did have a thing about red and black. Bull looked good in his Vitaar, even if he couldn’t touch him when he had it on.) That thing he kept yelling - Dumat’s Silence, was he screaming - Dorian blushed and nearly let the protective barrier fall from around his friends.

Maybe he didn’t need to be jealous of his Amica. Maybe he should be jealous of the… dragon? Huh.

And then his man decapitated the beast (so he didn’t need to be that jealous…) and flung himself at Dorian as if he couldn’t wait to have him. (Sweet Holy Maker and the entire old god pantheon, it was about time.) Dorian was almost (even more) eager, even forgetting the danger of the Vitaar as he wrapped his legs around Bull’s waist, and thrust his tongue between his lips, trapping Bull’s (Massive, for the record, and records are _very_ important to scholars. In the future, inquiring minds would want to know about the girth and length of the vashoth penis.) erection between their bodies. He had never felt quite this alive before. Perhaps there was a reason the Pentaghast clan was so large, if so many of its earlier members had been known for killing these things. He must remember to ask Cassandra. Later. Much, much later. Right now he was busy. Kissing.

Maker, he loved this man. He barely flinched away from the thought, in the heat of the moment.

He vaguely heard whooping and whistling from the (unwelcome) bystanders, and just managed to detach one hand (previously wrapped around a horn for leverage - leverage was important when your lover was large) to flip off his Amica and her Commander. He never wanted this kiss to end. And they needed to _go away_.

He could tell that Bull felt the same way - the single-mindedness of his mouth on his, and the way his thumbs were stroking his ass in little circles was a potent sign. He was fairly sure that Solas, the Commander and Asta made their way out of the area - probably back to Caer Bronach, not that he cared where they were as long as they were no where close by - before he realized that he was undressing Bull, yanking at the ties on those horrible voluminous pants (He really did hate them, but at least they came off easy?) and pulling the other man back against him just as quickly.

Bull shoved him up against a wall (When had they made it into the remains of the dragon’s keep? He didn’t remember retreating…) and pulled at his laces, too impatient to stop to take his time. “This okay?” Bull grunted. “Ain’t like you, Dorian. You like beds, and comfort…” (Maker’s Breath, the man was worried that he…)

“Just touch me,” Dorian panted and swooped back into the man’s mouth (swooping was bad, but he was overdue) for another heated kiss, all tongues and panting and teeth and what felt like fire racing through his veins - probably a side-effect of the Vitaar.

He couldn’t care less right now if he was poisoned. At least he would die happy, with his… Amatus. He probably had the antidote somewhere on him anyway. Bull planned ahead well.

Bull only pulled back for a moment, looking at him seriously for confirmation, as he stroked him slowly. Dorian wrapped his own hand (too small to get around him entirely, but…), the sensation of the heat of their sweat and cold mixing in the damp air making them shudder in unison and pulled, a little roughly, just the way Bull liked it. “Shit, Kadan…” Bull’s knees actually tried to buckle, "Do that again..."

And there was that word again. Another thing entirely was swooping now, and it was soaring higher than any dragon. (Possibly, since he was going to be trite and unoriginal, it was his heart. He really must stop reading Varric’s books, or he would start believing that love conquered all. Love did _not_ conquer all.) “At least,” Dorian panted and arched his back against the wall, bracing himself and staring into Bull’s eye, as they both kept moving against each other, pressing harder, and watching each other‘s reactions. “At least you aren’t having to pleasure yourself to the memory of that… beast. I can do it for you, instead.” (Possibly he needed to consider bringing oil with him, if he was going to start getting into these situations with Bull. He could see this happening again, and other options were far preferable to getting each other off by hand. Damn it, he wanted him inside, and that wasn‘t happening without some kind of lubricant.  Love did _not_ conquer all.)

And Bull had laughed, a little wildly, his eye swallowed by black. “I keep forgetting you understand Qunlat.” He had let him go, and dropped to his knees. “Don’t stay still, Dorian.” And nearly swallowed him whole. Trust the Qunari to prove him wrong. He had never been happier to be wrong about… well, just about everything in his life.

Dorian fisted his hands around, pressing the horns of his… lover into the ridged scars on his palm and thrust into the larger man’s mouth. (He didn’t have to worry about choking him. Fuck.) “Bull, I…” The kossith had only rumbled (was he _laughing_?) and Dorian felt himself let go, his spend disappearing down the man’s throat with the vibration.

“I’m hardly fluent…” Dorian’s voice was far too high, and shaky. “Bull, let me…”

“Whatever you want, Dorian,” Bull grunted, and stood up to kiss him (Maker, his taste and Bull’s complimented each other. He could get drunker on this than any wine.). They drew out the kiss, their tongues stroking, and their skin slipping together in a horribly sexy (and messy) manner. (The mess was hardly the most prominent issue on his mind. Really.) Bull was pressed into his abdomen and all Dorian really wanted was impossible, given their lack of preparation for this event. (Never again would he be unprepared. He swore it now, in front of… well, one very dead dragon and the man he loved.  Surely that sort of vow counted for something?)

So instead, Dorian fell to his knees (ignoring the scrapes that were inevitable from the hard ground and the scattered pebbles), covered Bull with his mouth and wrapped his two hands around to make up for the fact that his mouth was far too small, stroking and sucking… and the other man came into his mouth with the kind of explosion that he had heretofore only experienced from the presence of Gaatlok cannons. He actually choked while managing to swallow. “Kadan…” Bull was whining, “Dorian… please, Dorian…”

Dorian was a good listener, and stroked more gently, bringing his lover (definitely getting easier now) down from his high.

“Crap, Dorian…” Bull yanked him to his feet again and kissed him, slowly and thoroughly, enough to make his knees quiver and force him to sag against him. “That was… shit.” Bull pulled back, panting and gasping. “That’s a compliment, not…”

“I understood,” Dorian managed to be wry, even as his voice quavered. “I have similar sentiments.”

“Sorry,” Bull apologized. “I kind of lost it there.  You okay?  Want my handkerchief? I know you forgot yours. You always forget yours.”

“Do I look that bad?” Dorian panted, his brain still down for the count, and took the handkerchief and his clothes from the other man’s hand, muttering something to deflect his vulnerability. Possibly about his clothes. He couldn’t care less about the clothes. Asta was always shoving new armor in his direction. He suspected she enjoyed dressing him up. He had more options at Skyhold than he had ever had in Tevinter, and that said a lot. But he was missing what Bull was saying while cleaning himself up.

Something about him smelling hot? He broke into a small smile, hesitant and gentle. Bull liked the way he smelled too? That was… that was darling. (He would cry if he wasn’t careful.  All his feelings were far too close to the surface at the moment.) But before he could return the compliment Bull was already going to the skull and doing something with the dragon’s… Dorian started to tremble. He was pulling a tooth. (Act natural. Your Amatus is about to do something romantic. Don’t mess this up by being… yourself.) He said something that sounded witty (he was pretty sure. Oh, Maker, Bull really was…)

“What do you need that for?” (Andraste’s staff and Maker’s fire, not now… He couldn’t do this now…) His heart was racing faster than during the fight itself, or the aftermath, pounding in his ears.

“Souvenir,” Bull grunted, and looked self-conscious.

He _was_ messing it up, and instead of just letting it happen, his mouth got in the way, “Pull me one too?” Before he realized what had happened Bull had backed him up against the wall, and he was still only halfway to having all his buckles refastened, and he was whimpering again. Shit. Bull was calling his bluff, they both knew how he _felt_ , and…

Suddenly he wasn’t sure he was ready to have Bull admit that he… cared about him. (It was all right if he admitted it. Because he had been working on that for months, in his own awkward way. But it was an entirely different matter to find out that your Amatus felt exactly the same way about you. That was dangerous.  Wasn’t it?) But it was too late. Bull was slamming his hands into the wall behind him for emphasis. “Damn it, Dorian, do you… care or not?” There was something else in the middle of all the words, but Dorian was stuck on the word ‘care’. (He was terrible at feelings.) “I’ve never fucking done this!”

It had never occurred to him that Bull was just as worried as he was about where their relationship was headed.  Just as concerned about all of it.

Maker, he was such an ass. So conceited, so self-centered…

And so he confessed. After trying to deflect one more time, sharing another minute portion of his all too sad story beforehand (because it might change the way Bull felt, and that would be safer, or something), and having Bull call him on it…

But then Bull was begging… begging _him_ not to change, (No one in his life had cared quite that much about him staying the same person before.) and asking him… “Will you or won’t you?”

And Dorian, hating himself with every word, scared out of his blessed mind, prevaricated again, “I won’t know what you’re talking about unless you ask, buffoon!”

And Bull had collapsed on the steps of the ruin, and started throwing rocks at the bloody remains of the dragon, tooth still in his hand.

Dorian despaired. He had lost his chance, his only chance… but… “You can’t even bring yourself to say it either! We’re enemies, Bull. Mage and Ben-Hasserath…” he babbled on for a minute, trying all the worn out excuses he had made in his head for months, trying to convince himself they couldn’t be together, not like this. “’Vint and Qunari. It’s fucking hopeless.” And there were the tears. It was over. It had been wonderful, (when it wasn’t the worst thing he had ever gone through) and it was over.

It seemed inevitable, now.

It was so true, that people like him, people like Bull, didn’t get happily ever afters.

Bull deserved to be happy. Even if it wasn’t with him. Maker’s Mercy, he loved him.

“We’re not enemies.” Bull argued. “I’m Tal-Vashoth, and you aren’t an Altus any more. We’re both agents of the Inquisition, and the Boss said…”

Dorian stared at him, trying to ignore the surge of hope that was welling up along with incoherent babbling about Asta’s crazy ideals. “Are you saying you are prepared to have an open relationship with me? ( _Me?_ ) Show me off to the Chargers? ( _Me?_ ) Admit you love a ‘Vint and a mage?” He stopped abruptly, horrified that he had said the worst word. (Fasta Vass, what had he done? It didn‘t get any worse than _love_. To make that assumption about the other man‘s feelings was impertinent and unwise.) The shaking started, a slight tremble to the hands and wrists that began to quiver over the rest of his limbs.

But Bull was only arguing that he wasn’t going to share (taking completely the wrong meaning of ‘open relationship‘ - how typical)? This was not going the way it was supposed to go! And saying the Chargers didn’t care who he fucked and if they did they could keep their opinions to themselves or leave?

He was supposed to be calling it off. Ending everything, not declaring himself stubbornly to the world.  (Or at least one very dead dragon carcass.)

He was saying… he was saying that… “I want to love you. I don’t want to be the Arvaarad to your Saarebas, Dorian. I want to be your Kadan. You are mine, whether you take the damn tooth or not.” He looked so defeated, so vulnerable…

Bull shouldn’t ever look vulnerable. It was just wrong. Bull was invincible. A tower of strength painted in poison armor and carrying an axe. Tears were trickling down Dorian’s face for a completely different reason now, but he ignored them, and still shaking, sat down and took his Amatus’ hand (Just a hand, just a fucking hand, but it was the scariest thing he had done all day. And that included _fighting a high dragon_ ).

“You’re my Kadan, too.” He could feel the blood leave his face, and realized almost too late that he was holding his breath. “I suppose. If that means what I think.” (He couldn’t use Amatus, _couldn’t_. The other language was safer, somehow.)

And Bull had dropped his hand, only to wrap his massive arm around him, and tell him, “I love you.”

Dorian stuttered a few minor insults, knowing that they’d slide off Bull’s back, given his recent admissions, but finished with, “I guess I… love you, as well.” (If he winced afterward, it wasn’t surprising. Bull should just be pleased he got it out at all.)

And the tooth was stunning, in a ‘I came from the mouth of a lightening breathing lizard that was alive an hour ago, before the love of my life decapitated it’ kind of way. It was definitely a masculine statement. No engraved rings or elaborate jewels here. But perhaps a Silverite chain would make it more attractive to wear?

And then he had to open his mouth. “So are we… married now, or something? The books I read were more about the culture, not the social implication of such a bond.”

Bull merely squeezed him tighter, snorting. “It’s whatever we want it to be. You wanna label it? I say let Boss do it. She’ll be all over this. You should have heard the ass-ripping lecture she gave me after the Emerald Graves about how I was playing with your tender feelings. But if you want to call me something besides Kadan,” the man had shrugged and Dorian had panicked all over again, freezing up at the continued evidence that he could read Dorian‘s most private thoughts, “I’m okay with that. Call me whatever you like.” He was rubbing his shoulder. “I’m sorry I played with your tender feelings, Kadan. I’ll try not to be an asshole again.”

He thawed back out quickly. “I’ll think about it,” he managed to convincingly grumble, as his mind whirred and the words spat out as fast as he could think them. “Do I have to move in?” (He sounded like his Amica.) “Because your room is a _sty_.”

Apparently Bull thought so, too. “You ask too many questions, Kadan.” Dorian was beginning to appreciate the simplicity of the word from his… Amatus. (Baby steps. It was like starting all over again after all these… feelings coming out into the open.) “Does it matter?”

“YES,” Dorian hissed at the last question. “If we are embarking on this relationship, it needs boundaries, rules! I don’t want to embarrass you. Sex is one thing, but this… intimacy, it… scares me,” he admitted, eyes wide, and feeling as if he had just bared his entire soul for all of Thedas to see.  (Perhaps he had.)

But Bull laughed at him, and his panic dissipated with the sound. (Since when did Bull’s laughter make him relax?) “I walk around without a shirt, drink too much, and openly slept around until I started up with you, all of which are in defiance of your homeland’s mores, and you’re worried _you’ll_ embarrass _me_? Fuck, Dorian,” and he was given a kiss, more full of love than any other Bull had ever given him, leading him to closing his eyes to try to remember the touch of lips on lips more clearly, and the taste of each other on his tongue. Maker, Bull was _warm._ “Don’t worry so much.”

He wasn’t worried.

Not really. (Unless it was about the Vitaar. He should remember to ask about the antivenom.)

Not much, anyway. (Shut up, and kiss him back, already, before he changes his mind.)

 


	11. Not Angry

Dorian wasn’t worried. Really. Bull could take care of himself, even though Asta had dragged him into what appeared to be an occupied ancient Elvhen temple… and then promptly arranged to have the doors seal shut behind them.

Well, if they didn’t both come out of there alive, he’d show them just how ‘not worried’ he was. The assholes, once again leaving him behind to mop up their messes and stress himself out with wondering if they were all right…

He managed to ignore that he had told Asta that he wasn’t going with her, that his skills meant he was better with the army. But still - he was getting tired of being left behind. Even if that meant that he was protecting his Amica’s true love. (Ugh. It sounded even cornier this way.) The Commander didn’t need much protection. And Vivienne was better at it in any case. She even saved the hairy lummox. Dorian couldn’t do that.

He hated being left out. And being inadequate.

When they came waltzing out of that temple, he was going to give them both a piece of his mind and possibly a whack upside the head to make sure that the scolding stayed put.

That seemed fair.

And then he watched Corypheus fly away, and saw the Commander stalking into the Temple and heard Cole’s claims that they were alive and back at Skyhold - but he wasn't angry.

He was fucking furious. Jumping into Eluvians without knowing if they could get back out. Rushing into situations that would get them _both_ killed. Making alliances with ancient elves that dissolved as soon as the elves decided that they were leaving after ages of service. A week and a half, and a letter from his Amica later, he was still livid.

She had a lot of explaining to do, dragging _his_ Amatus through that kind of danger. Those elves were Sentinels, for the Maker’s sake. This was (probably) the last bastion of the Elvhen, and she… she had skipped inside with nary a care for her best friend’s precious feelings about the situation, dragging said best friend‘s sort-of-husband (Only sort of. Because that was a very, very scary word, only to be used with extreme caution.) with her because it sounded like a good idea at the time.

And his Amatus was no better. Dragging his Amica into what was no doubt a situation that she couldn’t handle, probably recommending that she jump down that blighted hole in the courtyard without having any idea how deep it was… not wanting to take the time and do anything right instead of thinking first and attacking second…

Cullen was too calm. He was supervising the removal of Samson to Skyhold with the sort of dedication reserved for only the extremely anxious or the insanely devoted. He wasn’t sure which to believe of the Commander, but knew that either way, Asta was in for it.

And since Cullen had yet to write to her, she wasn’t the only one. The Commander wasn’t going to come out of this unscathed.

He would wait for a few days before giving her his own scolding, since he didn't want to walk in on anything… untoward. He didn’t want to know that much about his Amica. She already knew too much about him and Bull.

Bull (speaking of lack of discretion) was going to be murdered slowly, cut into a thousand pieces and then reassembled with tender loving care so that he could do it again. A talent for necromancy could almost pull that off. (Of course, he was being figurative, not literal, but it was an amusing picture to paint in his mind, in any case. Like a jigsaw puzzle with organs for pieces, crowned by those massive horns. Don‘t judge.)

Of course, he had to find him first. Not that there was any doubt where he would be. In the tavern, bullshitting (and weren’t we funny with our little puns) with Krem, who had missed the Arbor Wilds by a week coming back from another mission.

But he wasn’t in the Rest. Frowning, Dorian began to search. He wasn’t in his excuse of a room (He found it difficult to believe that the Inquisition couldn‘t afford to fix the roofs. Dozens of the Fereldans who had joined up had been thatchers in their pre-Inquisition life.), or in the Great Hall with Varric, or in the training ring or in the stables…

Ever more impatient, he went to find a bottle of wine to drown his sorrows (and possibly stave off other things that were demanding his attention) and ended up in his room where he found…

Bull, stretched out on the recently reinforced bed, wearing nothing but what the Maker (yes, he knew that the Qun didn’t believe in a Maker, quit being a pedant) gave him.

Flushing a darker tan, (The Arbor Wilds had certainly returned his color in an attractive manner.) he had turned away to pour the wine. “Fasta Vass, put something on. It‘s freezing in here.”

“Nah,” Bull smirked. “I’m comfortable. Cold air feels good. You should give it a try.”

All his plans, and the little lecture he had scripted in his head had gone out the window with the sight of that body, and that beautiful eye, fringed by lashes. (Stupid seductive Qunari with his… muscles.)

Bull kept going, “I missed you, Kadan.” Dorian melted just that little bit more. “Did you miss me?” (No man’s voice should be allowed to be that… attractive.)

“Not at all,” Dorian lied through his teeth, with a tense smile. “I’ve never been happier to be left alone in a jungle with an anxious Commander, the Empress of bloody Orlais, a finicky Ambassador, a lethal Chantry Sister in line for the Sunburst Throne, and an insane political prisoner who happens to be corrupted by red lyrium. You? Oh wait, you _weren’t there_ , were you?” A surge of blood to his face made him aware that, yes, he was still angry, despite the man in question‘s attributes, and he set the glass of wine down (a little too hard, it spilled a trifle, spreading it’s blood-red liquid puddle off the table and dripping onto the floor - not that he cared) on the table next to Bull. “You went traipsing off into the happy little Eluvian with Asta’s pet witch of the wilds, arrived home in less time than it takes to say ‘Samson used to be kind‘ (and hadn‘t he heard that a ton on the trip home from a certain Commander whilst dealing with his own angst), and never wrote to tell me you were alive and safe. If Asta hadn’t written Cullen… I… I wouldn’t have known…”

And suddenly he wasn’t angry any longer. He collapsed onto the bed, and buried his face in his hands (his scarred hands), the tears stained once again with his eye makeup. (Perhaps he should just stop wearing it until he didn’t have feelings that led to tears anymore. He could make a note with his final requests that they should apply it before they lit his pyre.) “Vashante Kaffas, Bull.”

“Didn’t think you were into that, Kadan,” Bull tried to joke. “I’ll try anything once, though.”

“Ass,” Dorian muttered and looked up. “I didn’t miss you, Bull. I was _petrified_. I thought you were dead, or injured for _hours_ after we saw Corypheus fly away. I thought Asta was _dead_ , until Cole started talking. I didn’t know anything for sure until we got her letter, days later.”

Bull had been reaching out, but pulled his hand back. “Sorry,” he seemed surprised. “I didn’t realize… I haven’t needed…”

“Don’t you think I know that?!” Dorian was nearly whispering now. “Don’t you think I have the same problem? There’s no one left to write to, except for you and Amica…” his nickname for her had finally slipped out after all these months (though not to her, never to her) and he didn’t fucking care. (Not now, anyway.) “And you didn’t see fit to tell me you were alive.”

“I’m sorry,” Bull started again.

“Don’t you realize how much I worry about you?” Dorian hissed, trying to find what was left of his self-control. (It was a losing prospect. Even he recognized that.) “Don’t you know that if you die, I’ll only be half of myself?”

“Shit,” Bull summed up eloquently.

“You can say that again,” Dorian finished, still impassioned. “This is exactly the reason why this relationship needs _rules_. If we are ever separated on the field of battle again, and have to take separate ways home, we are each to write to the other and inform them that we…” Bull lunged forward and kissed him, his tongue creeping into his mouth as if the man was trying to be sneaky about it. He made a small noise of what might have been protest (but wasn’t, for the record) and grabbed one of Bull’s horns to hoist himself further on the man’s body, curling himself into his torso on his knees and dragging his mouth up further. (It was lovely that he was so much larger than he was. Maker, he had missed this.)

He shoved the horn away from him and kept going, “inform them that we are still alive, and that we will meet them back at a predetermined location. Is that clear?”

“I’ma kiss you again.” Bull muttered. And did just that, one hand cupping Dorian’s head (his hair was probably a mess now - those fingers weren‘t small), and the other sneaking up the back of Dorian’s ass like he was trying to be subtle. (He wasn’t fooling anyone.) “I’m sorry, Kadan. Lemme make it up to you?”

Tempting. It was tempting, but Dorian knew very well, that if he didn’t get out a promise, that he was going to do the exact same thing all over again. “Not until you promise that if anything like this ever happens again that you will write to me immediately and save me heartache.”

“Did your heart ache, Kadan?” Bull pouted and looked soulful. “Did I do that to you?”

“Yes,” Dorian hissed, and dragged his face back down to his mouth. “You did. It hurt. You are never allowed to hurt me like that again. Do you understand?”

“Absolutely,” Bull grinned, elated. “I understand completely. You _love_ me.”

“I…” (Most certainly do not. But that was a lie. No more lying.) “…I think you’re missing the point.”

“You missed me.” Bull beamed, almost childlike in his enthusiasm. “You _love_ me.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous, not to mention redundant,” Dorian prevaricated, trying to remove himself from the larger man’s arms, that were tightening in reaction to his squirming. “Let me go.”

“Nope,” Bull refused with a true smile. “You don’t want me to.”

“I most certainly do,” Dorian lied, and then stopped himself. “For now, anyway. I’m going to drink my wine, and clean up what you made me spill, and you are going to tell me exactly what happened after you left me at the ruined bridge.”

“Later,” laughed Bull. “You’re in love with me, and I’m naked in a room with my Kadan, and fuck if I’m going to waste this opportunity with talking. We can talk and drink and clean later.” He bent down and started nuzzling at Dorian’s neck tenderly, (He had to be very still, or risk being impaled by those horns. A delicate operation at best.) and Dorian found himself with a slightly different opinion regarding their need for conversation.

“Later, then,” he managed at last. “But Bull, I’m still angry with you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Bull rumbled into his chest, where he was doing something with his nipples (When had that man managed to undo his buckles? Those fingers were far too clever.) that made him gasp. (Tongues shouldn’t be that rough. Maker, that was good, though.) “Later, I promise, you can yell at me until you’re hoarse. Right now, we got something better to do.”

If he was hoarse later, it had very little to do with being angry.

He didn’t mind.

He wasn’t angry any longer.

He was relieved.

 


	12. Not Impressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should mention at the start of this chapter that there is no floating temple. That was something Varric added to his version to make it more dramatic given the anticlimactic nature of the fight.

Dorian was unamused. The last few days were absurd. His Amica (and he definitely was going to start using that name if they lived through this - she had earned his bravery) had written a piece of shit love/good-bye forever letter to her Commander, who had shown up shortly afterward on that abomination of a Bog Unicorn (Asta insisted that she was called Saber, but the thing was disgusting, and that was a great sword shoved through its snout, not a saber.), kissed her (making Cass nearly swoon with delight - and that’s just what they needed before fighting Corypheus, a fainting Seeker) and Morrigan had failed to kill the fucking dragon _that was her only fucking job_ in the disaster that was this fight.

Seriously, what good was the witch? First she abandons his Amatus (and he was determined to start using that address on a regular basis if they actually managed to survive) and Amica to their fate at the hands of the Sentinels and Red Templars in the Arbor Wilds, and then she couldn’t even manage to kill a dragon when she had the ability to turn into one herself?!

He was _extremely_ disappointed in the ending of this story. Hopefully, Varric would do a better job when he wrote his version. It could hardly be worse, after all.

And now they were all sitting around _talking_ as if they had time to spare, about who came and who stayed behind!  (Well, obviously Morrigan was staying.  She was in no shape to fight.  And there was Kieran to think about.  He wasn't heartless.  He only appeared that way occasionally.  He was working on it, damn it.)

Of course his Amica was clearheaded and precise. How he admired her. Even if she didn’t have any other purpose for him in this fight other than the fucking _shields_. It’s not as if he could resurrect the dragon and make it attack Corypheus. (Though Bull had been suitably enthusiastic about that idea. He’d investigate it further later. Just for his Amatus. Perhaps some of the ones with babies? That might work.)

In the meantime, he had barriers to monitor, and an ex-Templar’s fighting style to appreciate in his copious amount of spare time. (He may have ordered, but he could still look at the menu.) The Commander and Bull fighting together, practically tossing the dragon’s attention back and forth between them while Vivienne gracefully wove around and underneath it… that was performance art. He could watch this all day.

And then Amica slipped under the dragon‘s claw, and Dorian froze, his hands fumbling at his belt before he found his spindleweed potions and tossed one at her, his heart thumping in his ears for long seconds before she recovered enough to crawl away. She shredded the dragon into the Fade and Dorian took a deep breath, eyes scanning over Bull and her before relaxing. They were all right. Everyone was all right.

But then his Amica and his Amatus left him behind _again_. This was becoming a habit. That they left behind the Commander, too, mattered little. They took Viv and left _him._ He could have studied to be a Knight-Enchanter. How many times had his father told him he could be anything he wanted to be? (Within reason. Obviously he was more concerned about him being straight than in his career potential.) Maybe then he wouldn’t be constantly ignored for a Southern Circle mage with a bigger ego even than his own.

Instead of arguing aloud (Asta had enough stress), he leaned attractively against a wall and pouted, staring up the stairs as Cullen refused to accept his Inquisitor’s opinion on the matter (stubborn arse, you‘d think he‘d be amenable to the chain of command) and ran back down to fetch more potions from Cole and Solas, who had been left behind to tend to Morrigan, and ran back up the endless stairs (There certainly were more than he remembered. Perhaps Asta was onto something? Could the Fade breaking through into reality possibly create stairs, if you expected stairs? It required thought.).

The Commander was certainly determined to play the hero today, in any case.

Perhaps he could take the same initiative. Everyone he cared about in the world was at the top of that ruined Temple. He shifted off the wall in a single rolling movement, intended to look nonchalant. “I did not leave my country to defeat the Elder One only to be left out of the final fight. I’m going to watch, at the very least, potions or no potions. Anyone with me?” (He held his breath. Most likely they would ignore the suggestion because it came from him.  He wasn't exactly popular.)

Varric finished checking Bianca over and shouldered her, and shocked him into silence with his next words. “Sounds like fun, Sparkler. You in, Buttercup?”

“Why not?” The blonde elf looked up at the sky. “Looks like we’ll need to hurry though. That green light - ain’t that Asta? Ain’t Corypenis red when he goes all glowy?”

They all looked up and the slender pillar of light broke through the clouds and healed the Breach. Again.

“Well, shit, we’ve missed it,” Dorian concluded unnecessarily, and broke into a easy lope (Not a run. He never did anything as vulgar as _run_. Even if he feared for the life of his two loved ones.) He arrived just in time to witness Bull hitting on the Seeker, Cassandra apparently being the hero of the hour. (Not Asta. Hmmm.  No, not really surprised.  Asta was a different sort of heroine.)

Naturally, he hit him. Only to allow Bull to embarrass him with the fantasy he had shared about Cullen. (That was supposed to be private, but Bull had no discretion. Dorian should have watched his pillow talk. But Bull was being very, very persuasive at the time.) “What? You’ve got your whole ‘if Cullen ever asks’ thing, I want mine, too. She kills dragons! She sets lyrium on fire! That’s fucking hot!”

Cullen, far too attractive for his own good, had smirked at him. And his Amica had been jealous. Did she know something he didn’t know about her Commander? Dorian found himself blushing, and then scowling when she laughed at him, apparently confident in the Commander’s regard.

Well, she should be. The man hadn’t had eyes for anyone else, even when Dorian was still flashing him bedroom eyes and making sly suggestive comments back in Haven. (Shit, if the Commander was… did that mean he wasn’t the Commander’s type, either? This was going to start messing with his ego, if it continued. He was _everyone‘s_ ideal man.)

Those two lovebirds disappeared into their tent (Which he had helpfully supervised the erection of - Bull did the heavy work, naturally.) while food was prepared.

Only for Cullen to reappear (far too quickly... he should have Bull give him a few pointers about stamina), without his shirt. He didn’t remember what he said after that, but it must have been something coherent, given Bull’s reaction. He was rather too preoccupied to pay much attention. (Anyone that attractive shirtless should be suitably appreciated. He had only been polite. Surely.)

He found himself lifted in the air, over Bull’s back, “Amatus!” He nearly froze. Shit, he had said it. In public. In front of everyone that might actually take notice. They were all going to laugh at him.  Shitshitshit. _Kaffas_. “What are you doing?!”

“Stop. Looking,” he growled. “You’re coming with me.”

Safely back in a tent, Dorian had backed against the canvas. “That was unnecessary, Bull. I was only…”

“Yeah, I know,” Bull grinned. “But you loved it. You’ve been wanting me to pull that off since the Emerald Graves. You just didn’t think I knew what you wanted. And this way we’re on the other side of the camp from those two. You know they’re gonna be loud. And we’ll be quiet, ‘cause you’ve got the skills. Put everything nicely into perspective for everyone else.”

“Oh really?” Dorian couldn’t help but be amused. “I have skills? What skills are those, pray tell?” (He could think of a few that might apply.)

“Many, many skills,” assured Bull. “One of which are those handy silence glyphs. Have I mentioned I love that you’re a mage?”

Dorian froze again, “Really?” It came out nearly as a squeak. (He assumed it was something that Bull had had to get over, overcome… his magic was something to be feared in the Qun, not admired, not… desired. Nearly the opposite of the Imperium. He was a dangerous thing.)

“Fuck, yeah,” Bull was stretching out and taking off his boots. “Demons are shit. You know that. But you… you’re strong enough to take on any of them. I don’t have to worry ‘bout that crap with you around, Kadan. And that thing you do where you freeze my nipples with your tongue only to melt them with your fire? _Hot_.” He winked absurdly. “We good?”

Dorian shifted to his knees and crawled over to meet him. “We’re more than good, Bull.” (He didn’t need to eat anyway. Some things were more important. Like them both being alive, and able to continue… whatever this was.)

He wasn’t giving this up for anything small.

Sometime later, Dorian was holding Bulls head in his lap (awkward with the horns, but not impossible, as long as Bull was on his back, and the horns were past his left knee - you had to work these things out when you were in love with a vashoth), stroking at the base of them while Bull almost purred. (It was distracting, that noise. In a good way.) He sighed.  He should tell him, even if it ruined this nearly perfect moment. “Bull, I've been thinking… I think I’m going to have to go back to Tevinter.”

“Wondered. You seemed preoccupied.” Bull grunted. “Asta put you up to this?”

“A bit.” Dorian sighed. “Not right away though. I just didn’t want to spring it on you…”

Bull looked up, his eye patch missing, and Dorian traced the scars (yes he could say it now) tenderly, loving the sacrifice that the scar represented. (Krem had shared the story of his defender over drinks with the Chargers. Bull was a hero. Dorian‘s hero.) “I thought you’d come to it eventually.” The larger man sniffed, but surely he wasn’t going to… “Gonna miss you, Kadan.”

“That’s what this is for, though, right?” Dorian flicked the larger man’s dragon tooth with a graceful finger. “Always together, that’s what you said.” He had to swallow the lump in his throat. (It didn’t help.)

“There’s together and then there’s _together._ I know which one I‘d rather have,” Bull admitted with a sheepish laugh. “But yeah, I know. You aren’t in there, you’re in here,” he reached up with his (pleasantly large fingers) and tapped his skull. “I can hear your voice up here, telling me what to do sometimes. When I miss you, I’ve always got that.”

Dorian swallowed again. This felt like… home. (Home, in a dingy, sweat-smelling, dusty, freezing tent in the Frostbacks. How far he had come.) “I… I feel the same way, Amatus. I can hear you…” his throat completely closed off.

“So get over here and let me love on you,” Bull laughed again, sitting up abruptly in a swift, muscular, sideways movement designed to allow him to get his horns upright again without knocking Dorian out or ripping his arm open. “Make up for the times we’re gonna miss when you leave.”

“I’m staying… at least for a while,” Dorian reassured him. (And if it turned into a long while, he wasn’t going to feel guilty.)  Bull wrapped his arms around him, and stroked his back, enfolding him into the sort of kiss that a few months ago he wouldn't have even dared dream about.

Because this wasn’t hate, disdain, or even tolerance.  It had nothing to do with punishment, or atonement, or feeling like he wasn't enough for anyone else.

This was love, and Bull was _his_.

And he was not letting him go.

Not any time soon.

 


	13. Not Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since I don't want anyone to get spoilered by accident, after this chapter is spoilers for Jaws of Hakkon, the Descent, and Trespasser.
> 
> Well, my versions, anyway. They differ a bit from actual canon.

You haven’t lived until you have put a 300 pound plus drunk Qunari to bed, Dorian thought wryly, after the all night long celebration party Josie had thrown. Evidently, he was winning the game of life. (Lucky him.) He wondered if there were bonus points granted for having to fend off the (far too drunk for any of that sort of fun) advances of said Qunari.  Because he had done that twice.

The proceedings had needed him and two Chargers (Dalish had a knack for force 'arrows' which helped with the heavy aspect. Bull never noticed her shoving him along with resounding booms.) and an understanding imprinted on Bull’s inebriated brain that if he vomited on his Kadan, said Kadan would leave tomorrow for the Imperium and never look back.

As if he would do such a thing. But the threat had to be made, all the same.

And after this, Dorian had a very good idea of how much alcohol of various varieties it actually took to get Bull drunk to the point of near incapacitation. (Only near… Bull was asleep, not unconscious. If he had taken it that far, Dorian would have gone for Ellandra. Alcohol poisoning was nothing to play with - but evidently Bull knew his limits in this, as in so many other things.)

The answer to that question was: a lot. He hadn’t started with the Maraas Lok until the Silent Plains Piquette was gone, as well as the Chasind Sack Mead, the West Hills Brandy, and the Grey Whiskey. (Watching Bull’s thick fingers hold a delicate wine glass had been one of the highlights of his evening. His Amatus had a discerning palate. But he was not dewy-eyed with new love. Not at all. Shut up.)

Dorian knew these things because Josie had been wise enough to bow to his superior taste. He had handled most of the drink selection of the evening, watching the bulk of it disappear down the gullet of the man laying on the bed in front of him.

He had not been responsible for the arrival of the Maraas Lok, however. Bull had had three steins of that horrible so-called beverage at the close of the evening, and had subjected Cullen’s assistant (long suffering sod), to it as well. Dorian reminded himself to let Cullen know not to expect Loranil to show up at roll call for the next few days. He sighed, watching Bull mutter in his sleep, as he undressed and readied himself for bed. (Maker, he was tired.)

Bull himself was going to be subject to an epic hangover. Dorian wasn’t enough of a healer to take care of the kind of pain he was going to be in. At least neither of them would be needed in the field until Asta finished her preparations to meet with the Avvar. He laid down at last, and curled up against Bull, trying to ignore how right it felt to be next to him. (He lost, and reveled in the other man’s warmth, and scent, breathing deep and relaxing.)

Bull murmured coherently and squeezed him a little too tightly. “I swear, Dorian, Tama said she didn’t want any of the chocolate.” Dorian’s eyebrows raised abruptly. Bull… was dreaming about _him_. (His heart was not melting, or dissolving into goo or anything of the like. He was just… surprised. And stunned that the man tried lying, even in his sleep, of course.)

“Nonsense,” Dorian said back, all too softly. “I know you, Bull. You ate those chocolates. Apologize to your Tama. Do it now and maybe you won‘t get into trouble.” His mouth twisted. (It wasn’t funny. Well, maybe a little.)

“All right, Kadan. You’re right.” Bull snorted, and tugged him closer. “I’ll share them with you, next time.” He sighed, a sound of contentment that made Dorian’s gut clench involuntarily. (He was not going to squeeze him.) “I’ll share everything with you… and then you‘ll have to take my side when Tama scolds me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Dorian tried to sound firm (He wanted to... well, not anything as silly as giggle, but it was close.). “I’m not going to let you lie to your Tama, even if I’m implicated in the crime, Amatus.” A soft snore made him realize that Bull wasn’t dreaming any more, his mind having moved on from whatever story he had sketched in the Fade.

Fasta Vass, he was in deep.  (Wasn’t he supposed to be shallow?)

Apparently he still had some learning to do. Both about himself, and about Bull. First item up: Why did Bull dream about his Tama, after all these years?

But if he was anything, he was a fast learner.

***

He could have gone back to Tevinter. That had been a valid option. The minor detail that his heart would have been left behind (and pulled in two directions.  Just because it wasn’t romantic or sexual affection between him and his Amica didn’t mean that he didn’t fucking love her - and anyone that thought otherwise could go for a long walk off a short pier.  At this point he could make several suggestions indicating locations of such piers in Ferelden.) should not have been a consideration.

He was strong. All of the people that he most respected in his life thought so. He could have done it. It would have been painful, but he would have survived.

He was a survivor.

Instead, he had stayed, only for his Amica to drag him through every single square foot of the Frostbacks. His job now was to splash through ancient Tevinter aqueducts, light Veilfire torches (Some mage had to do it, and Vivienne had flatly refused.), and make bogfisher spirits attack each other for Varric's amusement.  In addition, he was to serve as the tiebreaker in historical arguments: about Ameridan, Andraste, ancient Tevinter buckling practices (More often than not both Kenric and Asta were wrong, and it was his duty to educate them.), what constitutes ‘bad’ poetry (Cassandra was involved in this particular ‘discussion’, and her taste was atrocious.), and the Avvar practice of allowing their young mages to be possessed while learning their craft from the ‘teaching’ spirit that inhabited them (Cullen, Asta, Vivienne, himself, Cole, Bull and Kenric were all involved and all in violent disagreement about what was appropriate.).

He no longer recognized his life. Who was this man? It wasn’t Dorian, scion of House Pavus.

This strange person curled up in a bedroll with a kossith every night. (Josie had yet to find anyone willing to make a camp cot big enough for both Bull and Dorian.)  This person had regularly forgotten in the last month to apply his facial moisturizer, and _twice_ his kohl in the morning. (And didn’t his skin show the neglect.)

But in addition, this man was happy. (He nearly didn’t recognize the emotion.  He had had to pull out the little duck Cole had given him, and then he remembered.  He thought he was losing his mind, before that happened.)

Yes, the Avvar were barbarians. But it turns out, he rather liked barbarians. They were refreshing with their ‘I’ll kill you first’ mentality. Hardly any poison and sneaking around, and a healthy attitude towards magic didn't hurt either. Plus they made fantastic ale and mead.

The Imperium could use a few more barbarians. Shame that he couldn’t drag Bull back with him and shock a few stuffed shirts…

But that was impossible. It would be unfair to Bull to be locked in that sort of miserable cage. Half the people back home thought that Qunari couldn’t speak in full sentences (Not because they couldn’t speak the language, but because they were mentally incapable. Ignorant assholes.). He wasn’t cruel. (Well, that cruel.) He had seen the captured kossith slaves hauling their magister masters around Minrathous in those little carriages… Bull would never be one of them. Would never see that side of his country at all.

Nobody was hitching his Amatus to a cart.

This man was ashamed of what his country had become.

So the obvious solution was not to go back. Not yet. Just a little while longer, here in the (altogether too) rustic Frostbacks, that were made charming by the company. (If not charming, bearable.) Even if the version of blood magic the Jaws of Hakkon practiced here was horrific. (It smelled like an abattoir in that swamp.) Even if he had answered a dozen times that he had no idea how to melt eight hundred year old ice, even if he was from Tevinter. (He specialized in fire and necromancy. Just because fire melted ice in most situations, both magical and non-magical, didn’t mean he had ever run across this particular situation before. Even though he was a ‘Vint.)

Even if it meant that he didn’t know how to answer Maevaris’ letters. (She was worried about him. And about his father. But he couldn’t afford to think about that now.)

He wasn’t sure when he had become a procrastinator.

But he had always been a coward.

Of course, if he had always been a coward, why was he standing between an Avvar and his goal of trying to bring back a god of winter? That wasn’t precisely the sort of thing a coward did…

How had he gotten here? When did it become normal for him to march through a supernaturally cold temple, kill a hundred Avvar warriors, only to be confronted with a dragonsicle at the end of the journey?! He lit a brazier (Maker, his Amica's lips were blue - and it wasn’t just the creepy mood lighting.  Who decorated these temples, anyway?).

And then the Bruiser hit her with the axe, and she went down like a… well, like something very heavy. (Bull after having too many steins of Maraas-Lok, perhaps?) Vivienne cast Resurgence, and the Commander killed the man who was responsible…

Only to have the necromancer step out of the shadows and raise the dead.

Finally, a challenge. He would fight that Avvar mage on his own terms…

Only to have Asta order him back. (This was not the time to argue… this was not the time to argue… Damn it, Amica was shivering again.) He relit several braziers in a row, resigning himself to his fate as the master of barriers. (A fate of protecting people he cared about wasn’t so bad… was it?)  It was, rather, given that he had never wanted to be a healer.  Ever.

The insane necromancer fell, and Dorian lit a final brazier, though already the temperature seemed to be improving. In fact, wasn’t the ice from the… Kaffas. The dragon… his brain searched for the words to explain what was occurring before his eyes.

Asta was already speaking with the last Inquisitor, the poor man obviously disoriented, and completely unaware of how much time had past. He looked broken (and Dorian could sympathize) - his love was dead, his friends were all dead, and he had all but failed in his final quest. Any of them could end up the same way. But the magic he was describing… it was time magic. A stasis that would last 800 years… Dorian shook his head. The implications were fascinating, but he hardly had the time to hash out the details with the man who cast it. The dragon was…

Asta was nearly geeking out, marveling at the Inquisitor (so clearly a Dalish elf) worshipping Andraste as well as Elvhen gods, but Dorian was watching the dragon now. A dragon that was clearly irritated at being imprisoned for 8 ages as the ice slowly melted from around his form. (Wouldn’t you be… that was one of the few things that made sense out of the bizarre series of events that had become his life.)

And then it was gone, flying away and doing whatever an 800 year old (plus or minus a few decades, he supposed) needed to do in order to reestablish itself as something other than an icicle.  (Eat a few dozen Avvar villagers, probably.  No doubt Asta would be right on preventing that.)

And he would be right behind her, as always. 

His life was insane.

And he had never felt so alive.

Insanity wouldn't be compelling, would it?  (Possibly it would.  Delusions had to be attractive at some level, correct?)

But in no way would he ever decide to imagine himself in a world that included a dragon abomination that had been stuck in an ice cube for 800 years.  Therefore (and wasn't his logic just so incredibly sound) he was not insane.

It was only his life that was this crazy.  Despite everything, Dorian relaxed, with one simple conclusion:

He wouldn't change a thing.

With perhaps the exception of the dragon's horrific breath.  Nothing should be that nasty.


	14. Not Jealous

The Deep Roads were shit.

Endless twisty tunnels that they were following deeper and deeper, under the guidance of a Shaper that claimed she had the ‘Stone Sense’ to get them where they were going.

The same Shaper claimed that there was a pattern in the rhythms of the earthquakes. Possibly she had been traveling for a little too long. Not that Renn wasn’t good company, but Shaper Valta was a bit… different. Dorian couldn’t quite put his finger on why, but she wasn’t like any dwarf he had met in the Imperium. That was certain.

They had been down here for weeks. It was hard to keep track of exactly how long. Time had a different quality here - they slept when they were tired, explored and killed darkspawn with they were awake. Their only connection to the surface camp at the Storm Coast was letters - and Asta and Cassandra were the only ones receiving any with any regularity.

Dorian was not jealous. Really. Bull wrote when he could. He was busy, filling in the gaps left by absent spymasters while Scout Harding was learning her new job. And his letters were more than friendly, and he hadn’t mentioned a single redhead. That was more than he expected.

But his Amica was keeping a secret. From _him._

A year ago that wouldn’t have hurt him at all. But now he had all these special new emotions that he was owning up to and he was injured. Wounded.

He could just ask, and maybe she would share… But probably not, if she thought it needed to be kept a secret anyway. Instead, he found himself rooting through her bag and reading her mail. (Hardly for the first time.)

They were planning a wedding. Her and her Commander. Without him. (He had to stop the trembling of his lips and the shaking of his hands.) Surely they wouldn’t have kept him from the happy occasion? The Imperial Chantry wasn’t that different…

For the next two days he threw himself into the hunting of (literally) bloody gears and slaying of darkspawn until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had to confront her, or never see her again. (There were no half measures.) In the Deep Roads, not seeing her again was not an option. Therefore, Asta needed to apologize for her lack of foresight, beg him to be her witness, and…

And he was not going to cry. He had manipulated them into a relationship that they both had wanted so badly that they could barely focus. They _owed_ him for that. And yes, he could be indiscreet. Occasionally. So could Asta. She blabbed it around half the keep when his father had written the Inquisition before coming to him with the letter. But this… this was _huge_. He was her best friend. How many times had she said it?

To not be told this? And Bull was far away, and suddenly he was all alone again and nobody loved him. Only it was worse, now, because he knew what he had lost. He had had friendship, and love, and one was miles above his head and the other was keeping secrets.

He found himself at the end of those two long days staring at the ceiling, thinking about Bull far above them, killing the dragon at the Storm Coast with Cullen and his Chargers, and gave up the fight. He was going to confront Asta. If Cullen had told Bull, then his Amica (Did she deserve the nickname after keeping this from him? It was debatable. A friend would tell him and include him in the plans.) could tell him. And let him take over. Because assuredly, she was going to get it all wrong. The woman couldn’t plan a party to save her soul. She couldn’t even choose clothing that didn’t look like pajamas.

But first, he would write to Bull, and try to get him to tell him. He would use all his (considerable) power of guilt tripping about his eventual return to Tevinter to make him feel sorry for him. (He was all alone, after all. But his Amatus loved him.)

He really loved him. Bull’s reply to his letter was all full of descriptions of his skin and how he was going to worship it, combined with threats to his home country, and declarations of… fidelity. (Not undying love, but fidelity. Faithfulness, however threatening of an idea, was safer. He was working on it. Shut up.) Followed by an absolute refusal to tell him anything that had to do with Cullen and Asta. As if he didn’t already know. (Hmph. Given Bull‘s prior promises, he would forgive him. Maybe.)

It was time to get the truth.

It was satisfying to be so much taller than his Amica, as he held her letter from Cullen over her head. And yes, he did have a stab of guilt when she realized that he had been stealing his letters (again). He had to remind her aloud that they were leaving him out before she dragged him away to something resembling privacy. Nearly gleefully he taunted her with sarcasm, before the guilt hit him full force. Apparently it wasn’t ‘leave the ‘Vint out of the secret day’. Nobody knew.

Except for him. Even while he glowed inwardly with the confirmation of his skills as a matchmaker, he teased her with the anticlimactic nature of her news. Until he realized she was going to have _Cole_ be a witness.

Cole. The ex-spirit. Who wasn’t even here. In the Deep Roads. With his Amica. His mind spun angrily. Why wasn’t he the first choice?! Cole wasn’t Andrastian! That he knew of. Had anyone ever asked him?

And _Cassandra_ was her second choice? That was… he kept himself from sputtering only with extreme focus. “This is why I don’t have friends. They keep important things from you and overlook you as the perfect person for the job,” he may have sounded melodramatic, but the pain was real. Possibly he had never wanted anything so much, than to be a witness at his Amica’s wedding to her Commander.

He listened to Asta, his dear friend, explaining that she and Cullen were intending to leave the Inquisition at some point, hardly caring. Everyone would leave the Inquisition eventually. It was inevitable. That they were trying to ensure that it had good leadership reflected well on both of them. But it mattered hardly at all in the face of their news. (The wedding was more important. It was the culmination of their personal lives, their victory over the demons both literal and figurative that threatened to keep them apart… He had to resist writing that down to include in his toast at their wedding dinner.)

And then he realized the most horrific part: His Amica was planning to get married in her dress uniform, in the Divine’s office at the Cathedral in Val Royeaux. Secretly. The very thought was a travesty. The Inquisitor’s wedding should be a huge, multi-national affair, with music, and illustrious guests, and…

She didn’t want any of that. Cullen didn’t want any of that. (It should have been obvious, in retrospect. Neither were used to living in the public eye.)

He appointed himself their second witness, and took over the planning. This would be his gift to her - other than the obvious gift of the Commander, of course.

Dorian could plan what they wanted. His beautiful mind whirled with gem-like thoughts of flowers, fabric, drinks and vows. (If it lingered on Cullen dressed up and standing at a Chantry altar… well, neither Asta or Bull would ever have to know.) He would find a way to arrange for the gazebo at the Winter Palace. (Now his brain supplied him with a not-so-helpful picture, of Bull standing under the trellis in question, instead of Cullen, waiting for _him._ Obviously it was time to stop thinking. That was impossible, even with as far as they had come.)

With the new preoccupation of his thoughts, he barely noticed when Cassandra interrupted (Eavesdropper. He couldn’t keep a secret? Evidently the Seeker couldn’t tell when people needed to be alone.) and they began talking about Cullen’s potentially being rewarded for his service to the Chantry with the title of Right Hand to the Divine. It was irrelevant. Southern Thedas made these things so confusing.

He had a wedding to plan.

He was determined to make it everything Asta (and the Commander, of course) had never realized they needed or wanted out of their day. It would be perfect.

He would be generous.

***

He was _not_ bossy. He was - he was generous, and determined to give Asta the best day of her life. It had to be perfect. Ideal…

Perhaps he was a little bossy. But he couldn’t handle everything from the Deep Roads, damn it. Bull needed to know precisely where to go, and what to buy, and where to arrange…

His Amatus was doing a fine job. And was buying him presents. (The stab of guilt that came from this was intense. He loved presents. It had been some time since anyone had bought him a present.  And his last three letters to Bull had been nothing but wedding instructions.  Kaffas.)

In the knowledge that he had presents waiting for him on the surface he took out the little wooden duck he carried with him since Cole had given it to him, as a substitute for the one he had left behind. A symbol, he supposed, of more innocent days. He couldn’t apologize to his Amatus, of course, but… he could thank him for his help. He traced the duck’s smooth edges with his fingers. The paint was starting to chip, in similar places to the one he had in Qarinus.

He tucked it away in the (rude) sweater that Bull had given him. (That horrible, fuzzy, adorable thing… he would never admit out loud that he loved it. But he slept in it nearly constantly down here. It was cold. And it was from Bull.) The only two presents (other than all the armor Asta was constantly forcing upon him) he had received in the South. More precious than anything he had at home.

And then he received the box.

He had staggered back, dropping his birthright into the dust of the Roads, trying not to choke, or panic. His Amatus hadn’t meant it that way. He couldn’t have - he didn’t know. He must not know…

The Iron Bull didn’t want him to leave. He wanted to stay with him… (forever was trite and unrealistic, but still…) He had thought Bull’s feelings ran deeper than...

Reluctantly, he picked up the amulet, and wrote, to request clarification.

He would not jump to conclusions.

He wasn’t impulsive.

***

He barely slept for two weeks, until he received the reply. That Bull was proud of him. Saw how talented (He was talented...), and what he had been raised to be, and more than anything, wanted him to reach his full potential. (He had to close his eyes, but there were no tears. Absolutely not.)

It took him a while to formulate a reply. The ink kept getting spotted. Odd. Sera helped explain (His ire when he realized she had been reading over his shoulder was extreme. Elf was lucky to be alive.). Her charade of his Bull standing proud while Dorian reformed all of Tevinter (represented by shriveled looking Deep Mushrooms scattered on the ground of the camp) from the balcony of the Magisterium (a prominent bit of rock) was moving. Possibly Sera had missed her vocation. She should have taken to the stage. But then, all the elven roles were shit parts - servants and victims.  Her talent was too great to be pigeonholed like that.

So in the end he wrote:

_You are the center of my chest, too. No gaudy bit of overblown jewelry, distance, lofty position, war, or political posturing will ever come between us or make me stop loving you._

_When I get home, I want you to wear it, and nothing else. Are you up for that?_

_Love,_

_Dorian_

And in the end, that said it all.

He was Bull’s. And Bull was his. Forever. Vows wouldn’t change that.  (Even if... but that was impossible.)

He would be faithful.

 


	15. Not Afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW towards the end.

They were dying. They were all dying. Down here, in the harsh blue-white light of glowing lyrium veins.

His Amica was dying, from a bolt through her lung. And it was all his fault. If he had been stronger, brought more lyrium, brought more everything… even his spindleweed potions were gone, used against the relentless influx of these strange dwarves with weapons he didn’t understand. If he had studied to be a healer, someone who could mend life instead of bend death to his will… he didn’t even realize he was praying until the words had come out. "Maker, her blood is _not_ your will, you complete bastard. I won‘t let it be."

They had managed the retreat to the adjacent passage, barely, but he was left staring at his knees in the darkness of the tunnel away from the glowing lyrium. Cassandra was organizing their new strategy, but he… he… couldn’t…

“Dorian!” (She was ordering him?) “You will go with Shaper Valta.”

“I won’t leave Asta…” he started angrily.

“You _will_ ,” Cassandra had crouched in front of him. “Your loyalty does you credit, Tevinter, but you do not do Asta or any of us any good slumped over and brooding on what is done and past. She needs potions, at the very least. If you want to save her life…”

He struggled to his feet. (For Asta.) “Potions, then?”

“And water, and Sera needs arrows, and you and Vivienne need lyrium. We’ll draw for our jobs,” Cassandra met his eyes, and he realized that she was in as much pain as him. Her situation was like his own, far away from the man she… valued, and what might be her dearest friend dying from a hole in her chest. To feel a kinship with a Seeker… was not something he ever expected to experience. He found himself nodding in agreement.

“A mage should go for the lyrium,” Vivienne was pointing out. “If we can only find raw veins…”

“Take no risks,” Cassandra ordered. “You, then, as you are the closest thing to a healer and alchemist we have.” She paused. “Dorian…”

“I know, I’m no healer,” he managed a sad pull up on the side of his mouth.

“No, I just wanted to say…” the Seeker broke off. “Never mind. She will be well. We are getting out of this. Do you understand?”

“I’m too pretty to die,” he bit off bitter words in jagged chunks. “And Asta is too… valuable.” He met the Seeker’s eyes, and wondered if she could read his thoughts. Because for the first time since his adolescence he contemplated the use of blood magic (using his own blood, of course. He wasn‘t a butcher.). He had the knowledge he needed, and it would raise her to her feet, get her moving and back to the entrance of this accursed hole in the ground, possibly razing every single one of their enemies to the ground before them, but he would lose everything: Respect (The Seeker was still staring, and it wasn‘t disapproval in her eyes), honor (leaving his father‘s household for his actions would mean nothing, if this was his last resort), love (Bull couldn’t forgive him. Not for that.), friendship (He didn’t strictly know Asta’s stance on blood magic, but she wouldn‘t sanction a sacrifice for her own survival.), companionship (He had never known that before. Not like this.).

He couldn’t, he realized abruptly, staring at the Seeker with hollow eyes. Not even in exchange for her life. He was too selfish. Too greedy.

Too idealistic. Maker, he had _ideals_. (When had that happened?)

It was a moot point, in any case. When he had gotten back from his little field trip with Shaper Valta (Such an irritating woman - his Amica was vastly superior.) with arms full of arrows and ancient, dubious looking potions, and arguing about what path they were supposed to take to get to the Titan, the Commander was there.

He barely recognized Cullen, as drawn and pale as he was (the circles under his eyes - he hadn‘t seen them that bad since Haven), but his eyes didn’t linger. They were searching the shadows behind him…

Bull wasn’t there. Yes, he had been in Val Royeaux most recently… (Silly to hope.) No matter. Dorian knew Bull would wait for him. (His heart swooped in a decidedly less pleasant direction all the same. Straight down, just like their path into this pit.)

In the meantime, thanks to her Commander’s presence of mind, Asta was recovering, in the care of a surgeon. Cassandra had been right. All would be well.

Maybe they would be able to get home.

Maybe they would make it out unscathed. And if the Commander was brave enough to face every fear he had in order to make his way to her…

He was optimistic. (Such an unusual trait.)

***

He didn’t remember. Unlike him to be forgetful… but Asta had insisted that he had flung himself in front of Cullen, to keep him from being sprayed with lyrium. (Stuff and nonsense. Would he do such a thing? Him? How was _he_ the hero of the hour? He was never the hero.) It was more than slightly unfair that he should turn out to be the hero, and be completely unable to remember the occasion. Shouldn’t one be able to bask in one’s own glory, instead of in the reflected glow of one’s more illustrious friends?

The mirror told a different tale, however, in the three (massive, and whatever His friends insisted, absolutely not sexy) scars on his face and bare shoulder. Only heroes bore scars like those. Scars from their own mistakes.

He had written a shaky letter to Bull, explaining the situation, when he realized that both Asta and Cullen had done the same. He owed his Amatus the chance to back out, given his… disorientation and disfiguration. (He didn’t really expect him to. That memory remained with him, at least. Bull loved him. He was his first thought upon regaining consciousness, and his last before sleeping. Bull. Always Bull. Everything else could disappear, if he could just remember that.)

He would be waiting at the camp on the Storm Coast. He could wait that long. They were on their way back. There wouldn’t be sun, because there was never sun on the Storm Coast, but there would be fresh air and rain… Even rain would be preferable to dust and dirt and blood and lyrium. Rain smelled good, occasionally, when it didn‘t smell of wet dog. It would be a novelty, to have weather again.

With every step he longed for the surface, longed for a bath, a good meal, a clean change of clothes… and longed for Bull. (Even his footsteps echoed his name. And Maker, love was making him a fucking poet. Just kill him now, before he could inspire Varric to some further travesty of so-called literature.)

He needed him, to help him put his thoughts back in place. He felt… scrambled, like eggs at the breakfast table. (By Dumat‘s Silence, he could eat a dozen scrambled eggs. With some of those Orlesian cheeses. Not the ones with the veins like lyrium though. Possibly he would never be able to eat those again. The thought made him ill.) The things that were the most confused (His poor moustache would never be the same, but he really didn’t miss being unable to cast a barrier. If he went the rest of his life without that ability, it was just fine with him.) were mostly inconveniences, but he couldn’t remember all of their trip. The Titan’s guardian was gone entirely. He remembered waking up in the massive cavern that looked almost like the surface… and wanting Bull. Desperately, and without reason.

Where was Bull? Dorian was nearly blinded by the harsh light (Fasta Vass, how was it sunny? It was never sunny!) coming from outside the cavern. “Amatus…” he breathed in response to a suspicious shadow, and broke into a stumbling sort of… (Well, yes, the kind might call it a run. More of a controlled fall, really.) descent into his man’s arms. The only good descent. He was not crying. He wasn’t. Shut up.

Maker’s Mirror, his Amatus was here.

He was home.

He was safe.

Bull was kissing him, leaning him back like no one was watching, and for once Dorian didn’t fucking care that anyone could see them. His hands (Maker, those hands) were twisted in his hair, and he was laughing, and meeting him halfway, tugging him down further towards him. (Who was this version of himself? Was he possessed? Dorian Pavus did not kiss his lovers in public.)

He had no idea what he was saying, but he hoped Bull wouldn’t stop. Bull’s mouth was back on his again, and he was pressed against him in the most familiar fashion… and damn it, the man was pulling away. They panted at each other dully, and Dorian reached up, and stroked boldly around the vashoth's horn.

“Shit, Kadan, don’t do that here…” Bull groaned. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“I’ve already lost it,” Dorian laughed, slightly hysterically. “Bull, get me out of here?”

“Only one thing would make me happier,” grunted Bull, and swung him upright, and back on his feet. “And that’s waiting in the tent.”

He had never been so happy.

***

Much, much later, after he had been thoroughly exfoliated by his Amatus, and bathed, and oiled, he had reached down into his pack and pulled out the amulet, and draped the chain with fingers that only shook slightly around Bull’s thick neck, tracing the chain down Bull’s chest with his fingers.

“Bet it looks better on you,” Bull joked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Dorian lifted his eyelashes to meet the other man’s eye, so that he could see how serious he was. “Bull, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

“It’s okay, Kadan,” Bull whispered. “I knew you were gonna take it that way. But I needed to say it, and you needed to understand how I feel.” He lifted a hand and stroked Dorian’s hair - long since dry from the bath, but still untied - away from his cheek. “You’re going back. And you’re gonna kick ‘Vint ass. And I’m gonna be proud. And I’ll be waiting, anytime you can leave.”

Dorian breathed in shakily, “Bull, I can’t ask…”

“You don’t have to,” he pulled him in towards him. “I’m gonna do it anyway. Now get up here.” He lifted (so easily - he felt so small when Bull did this sort of thing) him above, cradling him (How could he be larger than he remembered?) between his thighs. “Are you going to let me love you the way you deserve, Kadan?” Bull was tracing his upper legs with his fingers (He knew Bull didn’t have magic, but it felt like fire running along his nerves. And didn‘t that give him ideas, if his Amatus was interested…).

“I’ll let you love me any way you want, Amatus,” Dorian managed, and bent down to kiss him again. “As long as you let me do the same thing?”

“Now you’re talking,” Bull grunted, and kissed him, hard, stretching up to meet him, and smacking his butt at the same time.

Dorian yelped and jerked forward along Bull‘s chest, and then, he laughed. (How could he be this happy?) “Oh, is that the way it’s going to be?” He arched one brow upward. “No foreplay? Straight to the spanking? I just got back from the Deep Roads! I was a hero!  Don‘t I deserve a little romance?”

“Shit, this is foreplay,” Bull roared in protest. “And what was all that massage and bathing stuff if not foreplay?  That was fucking romantic!”

“That was me getting _clean_ , you…” Bull stopped his complaints with a kiss, though, and he relaxed into it (almost) immediately, with a little whine and whimper. When Bull slapped his ass again, Dorian bit his Amatus’ lip, drawing a groan out of his lover that went straight to his cock.

Two could play this game. If Bull wanted it rough, he was going to get rough. He wrapped his hands around Bull’s horns and pushed down, and pressed himself into his man’s chest, rubbing his still oiled (Bull had been thorough) self against his erection. Bull grunted and arched up against the pressure, cupping him and sliding him along. (A moan was more than appropriate. It was impossible to keep it to himself, in any case.)

Rough sounded pretty damn good, actually. Dorian sat up, and quirked a brow and a wicked smile that erased the grin from Bull’s face and replaced it with desire and calculation. “How long do you think you’ll last, Amatus?” He traced a fire rune (dampening the power he would use, of course. He didn’t want to _hurt_ him, just make him sweat a little with the heat.) deliberately across Bull’s chest, and then ignited it with the palm of his hand.

Bull moaned, long and low. “Not long, if you‘re gonna play with fire. Koslun’s Ass, don’t stop.  That feels... good.”

He was not afraid.  Of anything.  Not anymore.

And he was _not_ quiet. (Neither of them were, in the end.)

 


	16. Not Satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull's POV - I wanted to try something a little different, to break things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By this point in Andraste's Asta (which I am following rather than the canon story), my Inquisitor is on trial for heresy by Divine Victoria: Leliana. So things will be a little different. The Inquisitor is in Val Royeaux, Bull is filling in as a temporary spymaster with Scout Harding back at Skyhold.

He needed to hit something. Seeing the Boss and Cullen get hitched had messed him up. Dorian standing by the Commander, looking so pretty (Fuck, he looked good in green. Maybe he just looked good in everything?  Dorian would say so.) and so proud of himself for pulling it all off… shit.

Krem was on a mission, so he couldn’t work on his second’s shield bash. Cass was still in Kirkwall. Thom was brooding - something ‘bout the Boss’s trial. Bad memories, maybe. Still too much guilt hidden under that beard. Too many lies.  Ought to shave it off.  He wouldn't do it though - too used to hiding.

Any one could see how the trial was gonna fall out. Nightingale needed the Boss’ support too much to let her die. But it had to look good, all the same. She’d put on a better show if the Boss thought everything was on the line. Bit cruel, but necessary. Boss would survive, but she’d be bitter.

He stared off the battlements at the setting sun, and his thoughts drifted to the wedding again. He couldn’t stop _thinking_. Worse than a demon in his head, these thoughts. He gave up trying to keep ’em down.  Better to admit it, right? He wanted Dorian like that, to protect and care about, with all the prissy little vows that would mean so much to both of them and nothing at all to anyone else, and promises that they would be there for the worst life had to offer.

And the best, but anyone that lived in Thedas knew that perfection was fleeting, even if they didn‘t sing the Chant. Doom was always in the next verse. That’s just the way it was. It is to be.

He slowly became aware of the man he was waiting for (not Dorian, unfortunately - 'cause that would be way more exciting) making his way towards him, trying to make it look natural. Shit, these new scouts needed practice. This guy was about as subtle as his Kadan’s eyeliner. (It looked good, just not _subtle_.) He sighed. Something to mention to Lace. He’d have to be something like diplomatic when he told her that they sucked and needed more training. “Report?”

“We have news,” the man spoke out of the corner of his mouth, and Bull could have laughed, if it wasn’t so serious. “It's the Qun… they aren’t coming for the Inquisition. They want to talk _to you_.”

“Oh yeah?” Bull raised an eyebrow. “Where am I going, then?”

“Orlais,” the spy stammered, obviously expecting a bigger reaction then a twitching eyebrow. Amateur. “Halamshiral.”

“Shit,” Bull was impressed, and slapped his hands down on the merlons to shove himself away from the edge. (He needed a distraction, anyway.  Too many fucking thoughts.) “All right. I’m headed there. Let Scout Harding know we got leaks of the Viddathari variety, and not to use the ravens. I’ll take the news myself to the Boss in Val Royeaux.”

This was how it was, wasn’t it? It was just how it had to be. It is to be. (Sometimes Koslun made too much sense to ignore.  Not that he could fucking ignore him lately.)

He needed to hit something. Bad. He saddled the Bog Unicorn sullenly, without any of the little cares he would normally have taken with his dracolisk, Asuna. (He was pretty sure that the Bog Unicorn didn’t notice.  Pretty sure it didn't notice anything.)

The worst part was he had to leave Dorian behind to do this right.  (He left him a note.  Not gonna make the mistake of leaving without saying something, and Dorian was off talking to the Ambassador's lackeys about the best way to represent the Inquisition back in the Imperium.  Didn't have time to wait and do it in person.  Kadan would understand.  Probably.)  He had to fucking talk to the Qun - probably Viddathari, if it was Halamshiral. Dorian’d be pissed when he realized why he left so quick, no question.  But if the Qun already knew his Kadan was leaving him... Well, there was no other reason why they’d approach him now, otherwise.

And for one of the first times in his life, he was fucking dissatisfied with how things were turning out.  This wasn't what he wanted anymore.  He didn't want Dorian to leave for Minrathous.  He didn't want to talk to the Qun about coming back.  He didn't want any of this shit.

It was not a good day.

And he was already lonely.

***

Sometimes life was funny. One day you’re bouncing along, killing things with the Inquisition, having a good time and looking good doing it (You can‘t fight evil if you ain‘t pretty.), and the next thing you know your merc group is subcontracted by the Divine to protect her and the Grand Clerics while you recommend that the Inquisitor doesn’t let her best friend do something stupid like leave for the Imperium. Not when she needed him here.

That the best friend in question just happened to be your Kadan, well… that was besides the point. They were gonna fight the Qun, and a ‘Vint mage was what they needed. Dorian was trained for this fight - and the rest of the Inquisition (besides himself - he could definitely pull this off)… wasn‘t. And with Solas being an asshole (no offense to assholes everywhere) who wasn’t gonna do something logical like ally himself with the woman he had spent years hanging out with…

He wondered that the Boss even thought it worth trying.  But that was the Boss for ya - she'd always try peace first.  Guess that's what the line in the Chant was about 'Blessed are the peacemakers'.

He hated being right. When the emissary came back empty-handed he was more than a little bitter at the wasted time. But at least Kadan was coming to Val Royeaux. Maybe he could stop some of the dumb-ass rumors about him and the Boss‘s relationship. (They pissed him off. He knew why - no point thinking about it.) Stop some of his worst dreams. Lots of those playing through his head lately. Ever since the Boss’s wedding.  (It'd be easier to stop thinking about if he didn't see how much better both the Boss and Cullen looked since.  Even with the mess all around them, they were so fucking happy.)

It would be good to see him.

Maybe he’d be able to talk about some of his feelings, if he were around. But nothing was easy.

Especially Dorian.

Dorian was difficult. And he fucking liked it that way.  That was half the problem.  (The other half was all Dorian.  No denying that.)

He loved a challenge.

 


	17. Not Giving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Dorian's POV. The first part of this takes place before the last chapter, but I didn't want to post a super short chapter, interrupt with Bull's POV, and then come back to Dorian. So... I'm doing this instead.
> 
> Possibly a mistake, formatting-wise, but well - if it's too confusing, just say so, and I'll change it.

Dorian was proud - puffed up and extremely satisfied.

This wedding - the one he had sweated blood to make happen - was going off.

Yes, the Commander was a growly bear, ill-mannered and impatient, with too few hours of sleep under his belt. Yes, according to Cole, Asta was a nervous wreck - but it was still happening.

And it was all because of his hard work. Not for his Amica, a swift ceremony in the Divine’s office. Not for his… friend (The concept was still a bit foreign, but the Commander was probably someone he could include under that banner.), the legally binding, but simplest form of the Chantry’s vows. No, he had read the Commander’s words, and - with only a touch of correction - they were perfect.

Amica didn’t need him to proofread (She could write a speech as easily as... but he wasn't going to be crude.  Not today.), but both Cullen and he knew that if Dorian didn’t read them first, the Commander was going to ruin _everything_.  (Cullen's speeches would rile up an army, but he wasn't gifted with the more tender words of love.) He was not risking Asta’s wedding day on the Commander’s poor writing skills (and the Commander completely agreed. Just another reason for them to name their firstborn after him. They _owed_ him, ootching and scootching their relationship along to bring them to this day…)

He had sacrificed so much to get them here.

His Amatus seemed strangely… twitchy. But that was no matter - Dorian would figure out whatever was bothering him later, and soothe his Bull. What mattered today was getting these two people safely tied to each other, before any one else could separate them again.

And there was Sera, and it was time to follow Cullen, who was lunging unattractively towards the gazebo like there was a rift that needed closing. Still, the Commander's eagerness was to his credit. He _was_ marrying his Amica - the perfect woman if there ever was one. (Possibly not perfect, but damn close.)

And if he paused in his self-congratulations to let Bull pull him in for a kiss to his forehead (Well, that was… sweet, if surprising...), he certainly deserved it, for all his hard work. (Yes, Bull had helped. And the Ambassador. But without him, these two would never have gotten this far. They’d probably still be staring goofily at each other across the War Table, making awkward conversation, and letting the other win at chess.)

This was so gratifying. He led the way up the aisle (having to drag Cullen back - the man was still trying to make some sort of deliberate dash - where was the man’s sense of pacing?- in order to make it there ahead of him.), beaming at Bull (who winked, probably.  It was still hard to tell - and did he look unusually solemn?  That was odd...), and Asta’s brother (always, always there were uninvited guests at formal functions - even when they were mostly secret), and the Ambassador, already sniffing into her handkerchief, and hiding her eyes on the Divine’s shoulder. Sera made a face at him, and while her pockets looked suspiciously… bulgy, she didn’t do anything overt - so he let it go.

If she ruined the day for his Amica, he would show her why mages should be feared. (Well, not really, but he was surprisingly good at illusions. Something would be arranged. That was a promise.)

At least he didn’t need to fear the Madame de Fer’s behavior. She always behaved impeccably, whatever schemes she had going on in the background.  Almost Tevinter in behavior, really.  (And he meant that as a compliment.)

And then Cullen opened his mouth.

That wasn’t what he had written. (Shit, shit… where was his script?! He was supposed to be reading…) But as he went on, Dorian relaxed. This was (perhaps) better. It was heartfelt, and… personal to Cullen. (Hmph.) It was rather… perfect. (Huh.)

The Commander’s impromptu vows being surprisingly poignant (It was probably because of all his coaching. Yes, that was it.), his Amica began, and Dorian began to tear up, patting his pockets in a panic.  Kaffas.

He had forgotten his handkerchief. His eye wandered to Bull, (his normal hero of the hour in such situations) who was coughing in an… odd way into his very large bandana.  (His Amatus was _not_ crying. Bull didn’t _sniffle_.) But there was no help from that quarter. (Perhaps he depended on Bull a little too much? Hmmm.)

Dorian would have to hold the tears back. That was all. There would be no tears from him, on his Amica’s and her Commander’s wedding day. Nothing was going to ruin this moment, for any of them.

Why did he even bother to lie to himself any longer?  When Dane nudged him, and handed him the (slightly sodden) handkerchief Cole had slipped to him… he took it, dog slobber or no.

Fasta Vass, he had never been so… he had to concentrate to breathe, all fluttery inside.

He was not sentimental.

But he was having... an allergy attack.  (That must be it.)

***

Dorian crumpled the note, pouting. He knew this wasn't going to work, knew that it had been silly, and juvenile... Romance wasn't something that was allowed for people... like him.  But he had thought...

Well, the note had put an end to what he had thought.  Pointless to dwell on it, really.

_Hey Kadan,_

_Had to make a run to Halamshiral.  Spy stuff.  Some people I used to work for needed to talk to me.  Sorry I had to split._

_Forgive me?  I'll make it up to you._

_The Iron Bull_

As if he didn't know what 'people I used to work for' meant.  Bull was talking to _them_.  For the first time in (well, a few weeks, anyway - it had been a good run) Dorian felt unsure about where he and his... Amatus stood.  If he could just drop everything and run off to meet with them...

Dorian eyed the little preparations for a private dinner (and subsequent evening) that he had arranged - the candles, the wine, the intimate toys... and tried (failed) not to feel bitter.  He had wanted... He had wanted...

It didn't matter what he had wanted.

Frowning, he put the basket with the said implements down, and took a deep breath.  This didn't need to be a disaster, unless he let his mind make it one by over-reacting.

The question was - did he trust his Amatus?  (Yes.)  The (so obvious) follow-up was - did he think he was going back to the Qun?

On that he paused.  The Qun had been everything to Bull, burnt-out or not.  Dorian knew all too well how large a place was left open in his Amatus' life, now that he was Tal-Vashoth.  (He wasn't really, any more than Dorian was a Saarebas.  But try telling that to Bull.)

But Dorian ran over what he had learned of the Qun, and what it meant to be a Kadan.  If he trusted Bull, he knew that he was... serious about whatever they were, together.  (As difficult as that was to believe, given their mutual backgrounds.) 

Koslun's tide was the metaphor in question - Tides were inevitable, yes - but...

Tides went out (sometimes they went further than others) but they always, always came back (sometimes closer than before).

Bull was the tide.  He would come back.

Dorian was patient.

He would wait.

_***_

Bull was in the training courtyard at the Cathedral. (Of course he was. Where else would he be?) And arguing with Cassandra (Fasta Vass, he was sexy when he was arguing, all bulging biceps, narrowed eye, and pursed lips... Perhaps it had been a little too long since… everything.) One look from Bull (and his favorite word, _Kadan_ ) and he decided to give both his Amatus and Amica a gift - the kind of gift only he could give.

No one would be talking about him and Asta ever again, not after this.  (He knew it pissed Bull off.  Mostly because it should be obvious there was nothing like that between them.  Bull hated it when people weren't as observant as they should be.)

“Amatus!” He walked (Running was undignified, without exception.) and embraced Bull enthusiastically, letting himself feel… everything. (It was good to be home.)

Bull stiffened but Dorian loosened his arms when he didn't immediately return the affection. (Surely the stiffness was merely surprise.  Public displays weren’t precisely his thing, but he would learn. For his Amatus.) “I’m working, here, Dorian.”

“I missed you,” Dorian tried purring in his ear. (He missed the mark slightly. But it was a valiant attempt.) Bull didn’t relax. “Do you mind?” He tried pulling away, feeling even more awkward. “I thought…”  (Perhaps he should quit thinking...)

“Fuck, no!” Bull pulled him back in. (It was all right. He didn’t mind. He hadn’t changed. He was still… his. Just preoccupied with work. That was fine.) Relief washed over Dorian, easing his tense stomach muscles.  

Bull was kissing him, (briefly, but it counted) and assuring him that he wanted... (He failed to pay attention to what, precisely, Bull wanted, because he had to slap Bull’s wandering hands away from his ass. Time for that later.  And not in a courtyard in the Grand Cathedral.) Bull was flirting, he was telling him where he belonged (It was with him. They both knew that.  Silly Amatus, thinking he needed to be reminded.).

Surely he didn't think that Dorian would be angry about the note?  It was all forgotten.  Work was work. (Weren't they both too aware that their time was limited?  Soon enough, it would be Dorian leaving.  But not yet.)

He adored him. His Bull.  (Possibly he was smiling in a slightly goofy manner.  This once he would let it go.)

Dorian could feel himself shining with confidence. This was how it should be, would be. Bull would always be there. Together, even while they were parted. It was perfect, and then it was…

...All falling apart, as soon as Cole started worrying aloud, picking up on his Amica's pain. His Asta was dying. _Again_. And no one could stop the mark from devouring her, because Solas had left her to… Dorian creased his lips together and refused to think. It was better not to care, better… Cole was freaking out enough for everyone. He needed to be ice, not embers.  (He couldn't find his logic, or his skills.  Nothing he had learned would help with this.)

Instead of ending up in Bull’s bed, where he had wanted to be for weeks, Dorian ended up pacing the chapel at the Cathedral, lighting waves of candles with every length of pacing, creating oceans of red Chantry beeswax, and thinking about portions of the Chant that he hadn‘t given credit to in decades. The ones about martyrs, and sacrifice for the greater good.  (He knew what Asta was thinking.  And it was _bullshit_.) Bull watched him from a pew, absurdly oversized for his seat, tracking his movements like a cat about to pounce. “Kadan, you ought to sleep.”

“Like Asta is sleeping?” Dorian spat out.

“Like she would be, if she could,” Bull clarified. His Amatus‘ eyes were not haunted. And he didn‘t feel guilty for keeping him up. At all. (And apparently he was lying to himself again.) “At least let me…” he paused.

“Let you what?” snarled Dorian, guilt and fear and longing crashing over his face (Yes, like the Maker-damned tide, get over it.) as he stared at the man he loved resentfully.  (It wasn't his fault, but he was a convenient target.)

“Let me hold you?” Bull asked, very gently.  (How could such a large man be so gentle?) “Will you let me, while we both try to get through this shitty night hoping that Boss will still be there in the morning?”

His mouth dropped open, his heart (Yes, yes, he had one.  Surely every single mention of the organ in question wasn't trite?) cracked open like a desert canyon. He was selfish, he was wrong, he was… he was stumbling towards Bull, the larger man‘s arms wrapping around him in the sort of massive hug he would never be able to duplicate with anyone else. (No one could hold him like his Amatus. He wouldn‘t ever let them try.)

And he let the tears fall, great wracking sobs that threatened to pull him apart.

He didn’t have to be strong. Bull was going to be strong for both of them.

He was loved. (It shouldn’t be so hard to remember.) And he let Bull lead him out of the Chantry and up to his room, and lay him down on his own bed, so carefully, as if Dorian would break.  (He wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't already.)

They laid awake once the storm of emotion passed, staring at the stars out the open window. It was strange, being in a bed together again, after a separation, bittersweet with the circumstances. (It shouldn’t feel so right, perhaps, but given the situation, he wasn‘t fighting it. _Something_ should feel right when everything was so wrong with the world.)

“Kadan, I love you,” Bull was talking, hesitantly, “I've never done... this, before, but… I‘m pretty sure that‘s what this is. Am I doing it right?”

“Probably,” Dorian answered, still staring at the stars and despising them.

“Right, well, I’ve been thinking, about Cullen and Boss, and whether…” Bull hesitated. “Do you think I could…”

Dorian flipped over to face him. (The starlight was icy cold, and was better behind him. How dare there be beauty when she was screaming in pain?  He'd rather focus on the warmth next to him.  Bull was always so warm.) “Ever what, Amatus?”

“Krem's got the Chargers... he's been leading them for years now, mostly, while I've been busy with the Inquisition... and I… I wanna be with you,” Bull stammered. (This was… wrong. No. No. Don‘t…) “Always. Even when… Will you let me come with you… when you go back?”  His heart was pounding in his ears, and he was already pulling away.

“I… I can’t let you do that.” Dorian panicked, his voice too high. (Too good to be true.) “No, no, absolutely not, Amatus.” He threw himself out of the bed (so warm, so comfortable, so comforting), and started dressing, hands shaking as he threw on his clothes. “No. You can’t. _Ever.”_ (No one was hitching his Bull to a cart.) He gagged at the mental pictures so helpfully provided by his horrible, educated brain of what could happen to a kossith in the Imperium (Possibly he did read too much.  These memories were torture.).

“Kadan… please,” Bull maneuvered himself half upright. “Don’t leave. Let’s talk about this shit. I just…”

“No,” Dorian gave up on his buckles as a hopeless cause (Stupid ‘Vint fashions - he should dress like a Fereldan.  They could dress with shaking hands - the Commander did it all the time.), and shoved his feet into his boots. “I’m going down to… ready the horses. (He had the vaguest idea how to do that himself.  He could start, anyway.) I’ll see you in... a few hours.” (Why even ask?  You've ruined everything.) “We should be ready to go when… Asta is ready.”

“All right,” Bull frowned at him and Dorian's heart (it couldn't have been anything else, trite or not) twisted painfully, while he wished... (Don’t look at me that way. I‘m doing this for your own good.). “We’ll talk… later. We’ve got to talk about this, Kadan. Not gonna drop it.  I wanna be with you.”

Dorian ignored him handily. They were not going to talk about it. Not if he could help it.

He was not giving in.

Not on this.

Not ever.


	18. Not Dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to finish this today, before the long weekend for those of us in the U.S.

She had left Bull behind. The man that she had counted on to be her bodyguard since before Redcliffe, and she left _him_ behind and took Dorian and her blighted husband instead.

It was all bullshite, as Sera would say. (Odd that he would agree so strongly with the archer, but there it was. Obviously the company he kept was rubbing off on him. What could he say? She had good taste in ale.)

Dorian hadn’t slept for more than a few hours for days. (He couldn’t sleep without Bull, and Bull was... Currently not an option. Not while they were disagreeing so strongly about his possible presence in Tevinter.) In addition to such personal concerns (as if arguing with Bull weren‘t already bad enough), his Amica was going through the Eluvians to die, because she had some sort of martyr complex (What, pray tell, had become of the simplicity that used to be his life?). She was looking for a fucking reason to sacrifice herself. (Apparently saving the stupidest country in Thedas, always excepting his own, was a worthy cause. Hmm.)

He would never let her do such a thing. In the tumult of his emotions (Where had his charming little decorative box gone, now that he needed it again? That had been an extremely _useful_ box.) he told her he would carry her to Tevinter himself rather than let her be wasted as a sacrifice. (Not personally.) Bull and Cullen would help. (Assuming Bull would… forgive him for… nevermind. He hadn’t walked out. He had given Bull space to… reconsider his opinion.) Lifting heavy things was what their muscles were for, after all. He would… supervise. Enthusiastically…

His thoughts stuttered to a close - evidently he wasn’t going to allow himself to be facetious while his Amica was dying by inches. (Which would claim her first - her mark, Fen’Harel, or the Chantry? Stay tuned for the next chapter! Maker, sometimes he hated himself.)

In any case, so much for defense mechanisms. He couldn’t compartmentalize (It was all too jumbled up.), he couldn’t laugh it off as a massive joke (It was too serious, but he kept trying.). Instead he lashed out at everyone in the Crossroads, spitting off his most bitter words and opinions about their plans. The sort of anger that would alienate him from everyone that he had come to care about.

And much to his surprise - they agreed. They would go back for Bull. His Amatus would be along after all.

He had no reason to feel this relieved. Rainer was a good man, (Dorian could hardly blame him for being a liar - wasn’t he the same?) and a strong shield arm. Cassandra possibly (definitely) even more so. But…

But when Bull was near he felt balanced - like a well-made dagger on the tip of his finger - even when everything was going to the Void.

And he had walked out and away from that very feeling. All because it wanted to follow him into the Void, where he would likely need it most.

He was an idiot.

***

Dorian was a fighter. He was going to get his Amica into that mirror (and why wasn’t Solas helping instead of standing there as useless as an unhatched egg? That absolute _bastard…_ did he have no feelings? _)_ and save her life even if…

And suddenly he understood why Asta was so willing to give her life. As Dorian raised wave after wave of Antaams and directed them to flank his Charging Bull (even in the melee he couldn’t do anything but appreciate his beauty), he finally understood.

She was willing to sacrifice herself - for him. For all of them. For the ones that had saved her in the future, the ones who had taken arrows, blocked swords, dove in front of spells, and triggered traps meant for her.

Fasta Vass, she thought she was paying them back for all their own sacrifices. She thought that it _mattered,_ this imaginary debt the years had built up between them.

He had never had a friend like her before. Selfless, and honorable…

He would die rather than let her do any such thing. (Plenty of opportunities for that, just pick and choose, Dorian. This looks like a good one…)

His thoughts distracted him, and his mana failed, and he was taken down.

His last thoughts were simple: Asta had made it to the mirror. She would either be safe, or they would all be dead. It all depended on Solas, now.

He had done his part.

***

Dorian woke, confused. He stared around him, not understanding why…

Why was he still alive? He knew, looking around him, that he should be dead… he was completely surrounded, and his muscles were aching with what must have been a dozen mortal wounds, before they were healed… Vivienne was still asleep, so it couldn’t have been…

Solas. He was the only one who could heal like that.

What had she given him, that the son of a bitch had helped them? He focused dizzily on her face (his Amica‘s lovely face), and then his eyes registered on what was missing as they dropped to her shoulder, rather sheepishly. (He was embarrassed - and absolutely filthy.)

The mark wasn’t just stable again. Her entire forearm was missing just below the joint. Kaffas… Vashante Kaffas…

His Amica had given her left arm to bring them all back… she smiled (hardly even bitter - how could she do such a thing and then act as if it was nothing? It must be shock.) and moved on to the next companion that needed her.

His brain (such a helpful tool) caught up with his confusion, and he immediately focused. (Later. He would ask her later. And then scold her. Thank her, maybe… but for now, he needed…)

Bull.

His Amatus was shoving his way out from under a huge pile of stone ( _Stone?)_ Antaam, a wildness in his eyes that Dorian had never seen there before. “Amatus?” He raised himself to his feet, a little surprised to find them stable.

“Kadan!” Bull pushed his way up and stumbled towards him, yanking him up straight. “Damn it, Kadan. I thought… I thought you were…” he was kissing his face, his neck, holding him far too tight, still at least partially in the madness induced by terror. “You were _dead_ … I saw you die!”

“So did I,” Dorian managed between the evidences of his Amatus‘ affection, “I was.” He clung to the larger man, letting himself cry. “But we’re not, now, and it’s because… because…” he couldn’t finish the crucial explanation. “Amatus, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have shut you out, I’m so stupid… we can talk about… whatever you want to talk about.” (Even feelings.)

“It’ll be okay,” Bull regained control over himself, still holding him too tight. “We’ll work this out. I’m not gonna… we’ll talk about it soon. Promise. Let’s just get back to the Palace and… then we’ll figure it out. I won‘t be… I won‘t push. All right, Kadan?”

Dorian could only nod.

Coming back from the dead took a lot out of a person.

But he was alive. Bull was alive. Amica was alive. Everyone was fucking alive. (And damn it, he was going to _live_.)

After getting some sleep. Fasta Vass, he was tired.

***

His father was dead.

Repeating it didn’t seem to be making it easier. He had received the letter that morning, delivered promptly by the Ambassador’s little lackeys, efficient even this far from Skyhold, just as Bull was leaving to check in with Krem. (It was slightly disgusting how early they were able to function on that level. How late he had been up with Bull, talking and making up, had precisely nothing to do with it.)

He was alone when he received the second letter, the official one from the Magisterium, and he sat down, hard, in the chair. He had a meeting to crash in the Divine’s office, with Varric and the rest, but he…

He had to keep moving, for his Amica’s sake. All her troubles and trials had lead to this day. He needed to be there for her.

But his father was dead, all the same. And… now he was a Magister, and apparently an official Ambassador to the Exalted Council as well. (Wasn’t this day full of nasty surprises?)

He stood woodenly (ah, there was his charming little decorative box, after all this time), and started pulling himself together, tucking the re-folded letter into his inner chest pocket, so that no one would see the seal, and inquire what news he had received from home.

Before he told anyone, he needed to tell Bull.

Bull would understand. Bull would help him find his equilibrium.

Bull would help him feel.

In the meantime, he was numb.

In the space of a few short hours he had gone from numb to an utter fool. The colossal sort of imbecile that could bring entire countries to their knees with their own stupidity. (Shame it wouldn’t be his own - starting from scratch might be a good option.) After their (They were definitely a ’their’, weren’t they? The dragon tooth insinuated such a… connection.) lack of conversation before, he had been stupid, idiotic when introducing the topic again… right after confessing that his father was dead, he was a Magister now in truth, and a full-fledged Ambassador to the Exalted Council from the Imperium. (He never did do anything by halves.)

In short, Dorian had asked Bull to come with him. (Could he blame it on his shock and grief? Yes, he could.) Come _there_. To his… well, he couldn’t really call it a home. That place had been filled in his (and yes, he would say it again) heart, with a person, not a place. But to his country. (That was better.)

And then he had ran away (Again - he was making a habit of this.), leaving snowflakes in his wake, hearing a shrieking in his brain that didn’t belong to anything this side of the Veil. He didn’t have to hear Bull’s answer to know. It was impossible, after all. Living in a fairy tale castle like Skyhold, and watching his Amica pull the impossible off day after day was messing with his sense of perspective. (He rather missed his sense of perspective.)

Bull would know what the snow was really about. He always knew. He would stay away, and it would be safer (His Amatus feared his demons. Just as well.).

But here was Bull instead, gently confronting him (in public, no less - would that never not be bizarre?) and urging him not to give up, to keep talking about it. Telling him that despair was the easy way out (How could one man be so kind and so wise?), and refusing to give up on _them_ , even while he admitted that it was all but impossible to have… that kind of life together.

And somehow, he was starting to believe again. That they could make this work. In some prior life Dorian must have done something right to deserve him. (Maker only knew he hadn’t in this one.)

Maybe they would find a way. Maybe it wasn’t just a dragon’s tooth hanging around his neck. Maybe… they were more than lovers?

Maybe they were meant to be… (Such a foolish thought. He refused to finish it.) But instead of rejecting the possibility of such a thing, he slid his hand into Bull’s much larger one, slowly, deliberately, as they left the Cathedral together, relishing the warmth against his still cold skin. (He wasn’t going to abandon his Amatus. Any more than Bull would abandon him.)

He was safe, here.

He was not a dangerous thing. (Not to Bull, anyway.)

 


	19. Not Subtle

Being Ambassador to the Exalted Council for the Tevinter Imperium was a thankless job. If he chose to fulfill those duties with raucous parties thrown for his friends in the Inquisition, no one would question him. He had invited the representatives from the other countries, naturally. It wasn’t his fault that none of them cared to attend. It merely meant more wine for the people he actually liked. (And the alcohol helped cushion the stupid.)

He really didn’t have any idea how to be an ambassador anyway. Other than Arl Teagan, he was probably the most disliked man in the room on any given day. Even Duke Cyril was behaving (slightly) better, even though he was twisting the strings to get what he wanted out of his Amica. (As if anyone could control Asta. The man was fighting a losing battle.)

Perhaps Ambassadors were supposed to be disliked? If that’s the case, Teagan and Cyril (and himself) were all doing a fabulous job, and Josie (sweet, deadly, frightening Josie) was failing miserably.

But the morning after the last party (they had been going on for some time) had left both him and Bull with hangovers. They hadn’t… discussed any further plans. Not really. (A reconnection on a more carnal level had seemed more important.) But as a compromise Dorian had Maevaris looking into a nice villa just outside of the Tevinter border (among other things), in case… just in case…

Damn it, just in case Bull was interested in making what they had… permanent-ish.

Because he was. Interested. In making this permanent. In some fashion, anyway. (Shut up.)

But he had no idea how in the Maker-forgotten world to propose (or whatever the alternative was) to a Qunari warrior. And it wasn’t possible anyway (there was nothing in the Chant forbidding it, exactly… but Void if he knew a single Revered Mother _or_ Father who would be willing to do anything of the sort.)

Dorian was crazy and he knew it. But if he was insane, he was insane about this man - this amazing, wonderful man who made him a better person and…

Fasta Vass, somewhere along the line he had turned into a sap. (He really must have Cassandra teach him how to make an effective disgusted noise.) He shuddered visibly, as it was, and looked down at his sleeping Amatus with a certain degree of fondness, watching the sunlight through the leaves casting interesting patterns on his grey skin. (It was endearing, seeing him sleep like this, as if he had nothing to fear.)

In the meantime, he would let it be. He was trying to arrange things already for his Amica to visit - he should at least _try_ to look like he was observing the Council to make reports back to his country (He ought to be sending more letters and throwing less parties - though Josie managed to do both.)… he had a million things to do before he could even think about…

He was a horrible Ambassador. (That conclusion was easy.)

But apparently, judging by the amount of Inquisition people that showed up for his parties, he was also a pretty good friend. Or at least served the best alcohol. (That was probably it.)

He would figure out how to do a better job, later. For now, he had to get Bull off the park bench and up to their room, without throwing out his back, and before the Orlesians all woke up and started tittering.

He wasn’t getting any younger. (He had seen the grey hairs at his temples - his father had gone prematurely grey, as well.)

But perhaps, he was… mellowing.

***

It was Bull’s Name day (and if it didn’t make any sense for a man of the Qun to have a Nameday, none of the Chargers seemed to care. Maybe they had a different ceremony? He’d have to ask later.), and Dorian…

He had a present for him. Not for him the communal gift of that massive, smelly dragon’s head that the Chargers were so proud of. No… Dorian had something better. Something that really said how he felt about the guest of honor.

He just had to be brave enough to give it to him.

Dorian blew out his air slowly, listening to his Amatus’ reaction to the skull (He had known all along that Bull knew that Krem and Asta were plotting. Nothing slipped his Bull‘s attention.), and embraced his nervousness like a friend.

It was all right to be nervous. And this… this would surprise Bull. (His gift was the best! Possibly he was a little excited.) He presented the small, perfectly wrapped box (His hands were not shaking. Not at all.)

He had to explain the purpose of the crystal, but Bull’s reaction afterward was just as he would have desired. “Fuck, Kadan, you really are trouble.” (He could have told him that.)

“Yes, yes, I love you, too.” Dorian waved the emotions away, inwardly beaming at Bull‘s enthusiasm. “We can talk every night, if you want.” (Did he sound shy? Surely not. Dorian Pavus was not _shy_.)

“I’ll want,” Bull kissed him on the cheek, and Dorian closed his eyes, letting himself revel in it, for just a moment. “This is the best Nameday party ever.”

And if everyone was watching his Amatus get choked up over his gifts and chocolate cake, no one was watching him, when he wiped a single tear away before Bull pulled him in for a massive cuddle.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life right here. (It couldn’t happen, but… that’s what he wanted.)

He was happy, here.

But with the Council over, his Amica exiled (of her own volition, but Dorian wasn’t complaining, as it meant that she was going to visit him as soon as he had a place to live), with no Exalted March on the horizon, and the Inquisition in place, separate from the Chantry.

Had he mentioned that Asta was good? (Perhaps he should brag about her more, to random people.)

But now she had left for Skyhold with her Commander, and he was staring Bull down, willing him to understand what he could not tell him. (Why couldn’t he just ask again? Surely it wasn’t this hard, for heterosexual couples who knew that their regard was returned… or perhaps it was, if Cullen was any indication. The man had been a wreck on the day of the wedding, after all.)

Perhaps love was just… messy, after all. In any incarnation.

But Bull wasn’t clueing in (that wasn‘t like him). He was confused, and frustrated, and getting irritated with Dorian, if the huffing and hackled shoulders were any indication.

Dorian had to be… direct. (He couldn’t do this. But he had to… or risk…) Nothing was worse than being without Bull forever. And this was it - either they parted forever, or stayed together. The point of no return. (And wasn’t he being dramatic?)

“I want to be with you, Amatus,” he admitted, shutting his eyes to make it easier. “That isn’t the issue here.” (Let him figure it out… please.)

Bull complied, swinging him up in his arms. (Dorian absolutely did _not_ squeak with surprise.) “You’re with me.” Dorian immediately relaxed. (His Amatus was brilliant, really. Now to play up his own part.)

He slumped back into the larger man’s arms melodramatically, “I’m at your mercy,” he whispered, confident (for once) in his acting ability.

Bull laughed (no laugh had ever been so fun), seeing where Dorian wanted him to take this. “I would follow you all the way into Tevinter, and into the Magisterium, Kadan. I would fight and kill anyone who ever dares hurt you if you’d let me. You just won’t fucking let me, and I’m starting to understand why.”

Clever Amatus. “Why? Why wouldn’t I let you?” (Because I won’t use you like that. Not _ever_.) No one will hitch his Bull to a cart.

“Because you think I’m something more than a meat shield, battleaxe and a damn good liar. Not sure why…” (Dorian still had some work to do, obviously.) “Don’t think anyone has ever thought that about me before. But I’m not gonna give it up until I have to, all the same.” He started down the stairs of the inn with him, not even bothering with their half-packed saddlebags. (Well, this was encouraging!)

But Dorian still had a part to play. “I’ll think that until I die, Bull. Just like you think I’m more than a brilliant mage, a pretty face and a nice…”

“I don’t think, I know,” Bull growled, almost menacingly. (The thumping of a certain trite organ increased fivefold with the guttural sound. His man stopped in the middle of the tavern, still filled with Chargers, celebrating (were they ever not celebrating?) the end of the Council, still holding Dorian in his arms. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man.

Something important was happening here, and he had yet to fully understand what. But Krem spoke up, continuing a long, criticizing (and jealous - the man‘s girl was at the other end of Orlais, no doubt hip deep in sand, after all) speech, “You two intending to leave now, Chief?”

“Yeah, you guys okay with coming later?” Bull looked almost… dreamy.

“You sick?” Krem sounded… strange. Far away.

“I don’t get sick. You know that, Krem.” Bull did sound a little stuffed up.

Dorian frowned, and shoved away, letting a tender expression cross his face like a beam of sunlight. “Are you sure you’re okay? We could wait, Amatus, let you get some rest. We’ve all been under a lot of stress…”

“Nah…” Bull laughed, and Dorian relaxed again. (How could a single sound lighten his entire mood?) “I just realized that I never wanted to live in a world without you. Even if the way that world works means you’re in Tevinter and I’m… not.”

Dorian could barely stop himself from shouting in victory. (Yes! Now ask me! And then I can tell you about the villa, and my plans, and how we‘re going to make this work…)

But that wasn’t Bull’s style. He didn’t ask - he told you what you were thinking. (Dorian should have realized that before.) “And then I realized you felt the exact same way,” Bull continued, grinning even wider. “And I wanted to carry you right back upstairs and let you take me to pieces. But I think it’s too late. I’m in the middle of eloping with you - or some shit like that - and I have to finish what I started.”

Dorian went limp. (He did _not_ just say…) “Excuse me, but did you…”

“Eloping?!” Krem beat him to the punch. “Chief… I don’t think there’s a single Revered Mother _or_ Father back home that would marry the two of you.” (And then the bubble burst. Thank you, Krem, for ruining the moment.)

“Who said anything ‘bout the Chantry?” Bull’s smile split his face in two. “Inquisition isn’t part of the Chantry. Did you miss that whole Exalted Council thing that happened or something, Kremsicle, my man?”

Dorian’s mouth worked wordlessly. “Wasn’t the dragon’s tooth…” he sounded like an idiot. (Nothing new, lately. Perhaps he was getting used to it?)

But Bull was already contradicting him. “I want something everyone else has to recognize. I want you to go back to the ‘Vints knowing that I’m never gonna change, and that if that snake pit ever gets to be too much, you can come straight to me and I’ll be waiting.” Dorian watched Bull’s Maker’s apple bob in his throat. “I wanna be the one you run to, Kadan, if it all goes to shit.” He had him out the door and halfway to the stables before he could come up with a retort. (Hard to find an argument against what you want most in the world.)

Dorian was still protesting, even as his heart soared (Yes, yes, trite and uninspired. Whatever.) higher than any dragon (He would argue in favor of that metaphor until his dying day.). “You already are. Nothing we can say in front of other people will change that, Amatus.”

“I am?” Bull stopped dead, and then sped up again. “Then we need to figure out something, fast.”

Dorian’s heart was hammering now (Could this be real? Was he dreaming?) “Even if it doesn’t mean we can… live together?”

But his Amatus snorted, “How many mercs you think have a happy home life? I don’t even want that.” He stared at Dorian, his one eye suspiciously intense and wet. “I just want you.” Dorian stood, awkward and unsure as he watched his man hatch his plans, muttering something about sunsets and white horses and… romance?

Dorian’s heart thudded, and strummed, with all the music of a thousand harps. “For once, you’re gonna have romance, Dorian, if it kills me trying.” He turned back to him, eye glinting. “White horses, check. Sunset is in the wrong direction from Skyhold - sorry. But I told you I’d make it up to you, when I missed your little surprise. This a start?”

“We don’t have to… Why do we even need to…” (Why was he arguing again?)

Bull pushed him up against the wooden stall. (He may have whimpered, but not because he was scared.) “Because your dad’s dead, but your mom isn’t. And I’m telling you right now…” Dorian tuned out, getting the gist of his argument.

Kaffas. He was an eligible bachelor back home. An extremely eligible bachelor, with his own seat in the Magisterium and in the possession of a personal fortune, and a Tevinter mother. He felt the blood leave his face, as Bull continued.

“I want you to be able to tell your mother, ‘Sorry, already taken. Can’t do it,’ flick your fingers in her face as you shut the door on her, and have it be the fucking truth.”

His Amatus was trying to protect him. And he had just said that out loud. He buttoned up his mouth in horror.

“That’s what I do,” Bull rumbled, breathing deep, as if he was trying to control his temper - or something more carnal. “You say the word, and I’ll brave the entire ‘Vint army to save your ass.” (Fasta Vass - he wasn’t acting any more.)

And Dorian, with a massive inhalation (summoning any spirit of bravery that might be nearby), “Then I guess we’re eloping. Can one of those horses hold your weight?”

Bull’s answering bellow of victory was worth any (small, paltry) fear of his own, as he swung him up onto one of the (all too appropriately white) horses that were supposed to be for Cullen and Asta’s escape from the Chantry in the dead of night. (Shame, that all those plans had gone amiss… but they might as well take advantage. Not his problem that they had decided in favor of getting the fuck out of Orlais half a day sooner.)

They heard cheering from the tavern as they rode down the road, still arguing, but intermittently smiling shyly at each other. “To Dorian, and taking the Bull by the horns!” He couldn’t help but laugh, at that, and Bull waved backwards to his Chargers in appreciation. “To the Chief!”

“To my Chief,” Dorian flirted irrepressibly, flashing him a look from under his eyelashes. (No, it didn’t work. Better stick with Amatus, and leave 'Chief' to the Chargers.)

“Always yours, Kadan,” Bull answered back, with one of those ridiculous winks.

Dorian almost reined in his horse when he realized, all at once, something of huge consequence.

If they were eloping…

Then he…

He was engaged. (He absolutely did _not_ blush.) They just had to figure out the details. (Fiddly things, details.) But that didn’t change the nature of his relationship status.

He was… Fasta Vass. He was _taken._ By someone who wanted him. Openly and without any reservation.

Kaffas. He was getting _married_. (Eventually. It was sure to take some time.) To someone that he _loved_. He waited for the panic, and it never came.

In the end, he was calm.

 


	20. Not Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter! Inevitable thanks and gushing in the notes at the end of the chapter.

Josie was a scary genius. She (with some minor assistance from a certain Merchant Prince) had woven him and Bull into a contract so binding that Dorian was surprised that either of them could sneeze without the other scratching their nose.

As of this morning, they had both signed, and now… he was standing across from his Amatus (his beloved - it was nearly as powerful a word in Common) trying to rein in his heartbeat and all his emotions, as the midmorning light in the Main Hall of Skyhold slanted down through the windows - magical little dust motes floating in the pale multicolored light of the stained glass. Bull had worn a shirt - and a morning jacket. Just for him. He had never been so touched by two items of clothing. (Even if he did like him better with them off.)

He, naturally, had memorized his vows. Knew them by heart, backwards and forwards and in at least three languages. (It paid to be thorough.) His tone may have been a trifle… underwhelmed (It was hard, saying these things - even in front of his friends. Bull knew he meant what he said - if the snotty tears were any indication.) But he wrapped up his little paragraph about Bull being at the center of his chest (And in his heart as well. Shut up. The heart is a traditional location for the generation of emotions. Ask any poet. It was absolutely not trite, if perhaps, overdone.) smoothly enough, and took a deep breath.

That was finished. Now… for Bull.

***

He couldn’t get it out. Bull couldn’t remember what to say - where was his piece of paper? Krem had made sure it was all written out for him, so that if (when) this crap happened he would be prepared… but he couldn’t even find it. (It had drifted to the floor when he dug in his pocket to find it, and was currently hidden by the shadow of the throne.)

All his efforts to make this the perfect day for his Kadan were coming to nothing. He had even fucking worn a _coat_ (It was just that important, all right?) and he was still messing this up, big time.

He couldn’t even remember what Dorian had just said… was he done already? Shit. Shit…

So he opened his mouth and told… the truth.

And Dorian was stunned. He could see that much, once Krem had handed him the hankie. His Kadan hadn’t expected… he was suddenly happy it had come out like this, instead of the quotes and fucking perfection he had had written down. Because this had surprised Dorian, in the best kind of way.

Kadan was trying not to cry. He didn’t want Dorian to cry, but… that he was that moved...

That was fucking good, right?

Maybe it was all right, after all.

***

It wasn’t the words (Well, perhaps a little. A very little.) It was that Bull so obviously cared… more than anyone had ever cared before. _Anyone._

Bull was rattled, that was evident. They were both so… new to all of this, the intensity and the power and the responsibility of what they were trying to create… but they were in it, together.

And suddenly it was over, and Asta was announcing that they were… something like married (The Iron Bull Pavus - that had an… interesting ring to it.).

And Bull managed to grab him two seconds before he could reach him, and…

You couldn’t describe this as a kiss. This was more than a mere touching of lips to seal a contract. This was more than being claimed, even - it was far more mutual than that. It was raw, it was passion, it was heartfelt, and had the sort of depth that poets only dreamed of. (And a touch of relief that it was all over.) This was tongues forming vows far more poignant and elegant than anything that could be said aloud.

He wouldn’t have even dreamed about this sort of kiss, a few short years ago. (Kissing was optional, back then.)

Bull tried to pull away, and Dorian reached up and tugged him back down, to start over. (It was their wedding. Shut up.) “Fuck, yeah,” Bull responded enthusiastically, and came along for the ride.

He finally let him up, only to announce his intention of (Once it would have been unthinkable to admit aloud) what he would have only whispered about, in darker places, in the dead of night. “I’m going to take my husband and have my way with him.” He pulled him out of the Main Hall, fairly certain that nobody was going to care one way or the other (the freedom… he would miss this. But not as much as he would miss Bull.).

He was victorious, though. Over his worst self, over his upbringing and all the little rules that had been drilled into him from the moment he could speak. Over Corypheus, over hatred and bigotry.

If it wasn’t trite and uninspired to think so (possibly love had made him more foolish), he had found himself.

He was Dorian Pavus, seated Magister of the Tevinter Imperium, and scion of House Pavus (Not the Shame of House Pavus. Never the shame.). He was friend and companion to the Inquisitor, and husband of the Iron Bull, of the Bull’s Chargers.

He was worthy. Worthy of everything he had ever wanted or dreamed of.

He was alive. Truly alive.

***

Bull sat up, after finishing the story, guffawing like he hadn’t just spilled all of Dorian’s deepest darkest secrets. “And that, Emily, is how I met and married your Dad.” He winked over his audience’s shoulder (it looked as absurd as ever), where their teenage daughter (and his heir) was slumped against the chaise in the villa, one hand supporting her dark head just below her pointed ear, and frowning in concentration.

“That’s kind of… sweet, I guess,” Emily allowed. “And pretty romantic, really.”

“I know, right?!” His Amatus enthused. “Your Dad swept me off my feet, first time I saw him. The pretty ones are always the worst sort of trouble.”

“Hmph,” Dorian allowed himself to comment. “I was _not_ that unbalanced, Amatus. I was focused, and… mature. And I always knew what I was getting myself into…”

Bull chuckled, “Kadan, I didn’t know what I was getting into. You certainly didn’t, when you showed up at my tent in red silk smallclothes.”

“I had plenty of…” Dorian slanted his eyes towards their daughter (possibly too young for this discussion at all), “experience.”

“The wrong kind,” Bull countered. “Neither of us had any of the right kind, Dorian. We’re still figuring it out.”

Dorian could give him that much, and came over, arms still crossed suspiciously, to sit next to him, and then let himself curl all at once into the larger man’s side. (It still felt so right.) “That was mostly the truth, Emily, except for a few of Bull’s… wilder suppositions. We met in Redcliffe, and the Inquisitor seemed fond of hauling us both around together. One thing led to another and we…” Dorian frowned, “Do you even care?”

Emily shrugged, “Not really? I mean, you two are together now, and it’s kind of… strange, but whatever works, I guess.” She paused, “but the white horses were kind of a nice touch. Not sure I believe it really happened, much less the Chief carrying you out of the tavern like that, Dad, but… it made for a good story. Can I go to bed now?”

“Sure thing, Em,” Bull tried not to look insulted. “But I swear, I did do that shi… stuff. Your Dad deserved romance, and I had to try, right?”

“Night,” Emily replied, avoiding the question entirely, and kissed them both on the cheek. Bull’s face dissolved into goo with the gesture. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With their skeptical daughter safely out of the room, Dorian relaxed even further. “She’s wonderful, Kadan,” Bull murmured against his hair (Still greying, far too quickly. His Amatus said it looked distinguished, otherwise he would have started dyeing it already.). “You did good.”

“I did, didn’t I?’’ Dorian looked up, and moved himself to straddle the Bull’s hips, hearing the joints crack a little with the unused strain. “Now, I do believe I should be welcoming you home?”

But Bull was already kissing him, and letting his hands drift, and neither one spoke again, until far, far, later in the night.

They only had so much time.  Best to make the most of it.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that read this absurd little story, that got completely out of hand far, far too quickly (as things do).
> 
> Thank you for every kudo, every comment, and every hit. I'm shocked that something I didn't think was good enough to post has been appreciated this much - and am taking it as a lesson to be braver.
> 
> I am going to downgrade the rating to Mature, since I never did post any explicit scenes. For once, I think I'm on this side of that fuzzy line.


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